Harry's journey
by Flash of red
Summary: AU! Non Magic. Harry is a troubled young man unhappy about his life, but unwilling to make changes. Enter Draco, the always cheerful nutter. When Draco unexpectedly commits suicide, Harry's world crumbles. In a downwards spiral of drugs and alcohol, he strikes up a relationship with a hallucination of Draco he accidentally conjures.
1. Chapter 1

With a loud smack, followed by a shower of soft clinks, a glass flew against the wall and broke into thousands of tiny shards. It would have been a rather beautiful sight, if it wasn't for the ugly, brownish remains of Jack Daniel's whiskey, mixed with cold instant coffee that were now slowly dancing down the plain white walls, until they too dropped onto the dirty carpet.

A big stash of random gossip magazines was sitting on the worn-down kitchen table in Harry Potter's small studio flat. All of them had one thing in common: Draco Malfoy's death was on the front page.  
The only reason why he had spent money on that bullshit was that he knew his deceased friend would have had a the time of his life, laughing at the weird stories those tabloids made up about him.  
He couldn't help the small chuckle, that escaped his chapped lips. The attention, the wild rumours, the capitalised headlines, Draco would have adored it.

Heavy feet got off the worn down couch and shuffled to the small kitchenette, where the drinking stash was being kept. His intoxicated brain and slurred body control made it much harder to step around the little shards than it should have been. He sighed. At one point he would have had to clean up this mess. As yet, a total of four smashed glasses graced various parts of the small room.

Another drink was poured, vodka this time. It was only around two o'clock in the afternoon, but Harry had long ago decided this didn't matter today. Nor did it the day before, the day before that, and neither would it tomorrow. He messed his already unruly locks further and pulled at a few strands at the back, a nervous habit. His most trusted confidant, best friend and the only person who truly understood him and accepted him for the person he was, was gone and wouldn't come back, no matter which voodoo cult he tried to approach. Worst of all, he failed to see the reason why Draco had taken his own life.  
He had always been certain, that their trust and friendship was a mutual one, yet he didn't know anything about Draco's inner demons. The Draco he knew always wore a happy smile on his lips and had that sparkle in his eyes that surely could not have been faked. It was emhis/em job to be the miserable one, the one who would need constant cheering up and encouragement. And Draco was supposed to be the one always believing in him when he failed to do so himself.

Another sigh and Harry bit his lower lip, a stupid habit that he seemed to have developed over the last few days. He bit too hard and felt the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. Clearly a sign that he needed more Vodka. Ever since he heard of his best friends death, from the television nevertheless, the world had stopped moving. Like the poor chap from the 'Groundhog Day' film, he felt like waking up to the same day over and over again: Passing out from too much Vodka; waking up to the television disturbing his current nightmare; pictures of Draco in the headlines; more Vodka; a pack crisps here and there; talk himself to get off the couch and to the bathroom, take a shit and repeat the circle all over. Random nightly sessions with his guitar, whenever he could not sleep.

A passionate musician from childhood on, Harry always found solitude in playing one of his beloved instruments. For a few days now, he was busy pouring confusing emotions into a song for his friend, whom he still couldn't believe that he'd never see again.

Draco aside, ignorance had always been his other best friend.

He shook his heavy head again. Another glass flew against the abused wall. He really should stop drinking. Blindly, he reached for pen and paper as a stroke of enlightenment hit him heavy in the head, though it might have really been the alcohol. The enlightenment was a rather short one however. Four words were scribbled down on the patient paper in front of him. Cow-pats in the rain. It was an incredible title for his song, but he was lacking ideas for all other lyrics. Again, Harry threw all former promises over board and moved back to his beloved kitchen cupboard.

The next glass of Vodka was drowned, though it might have been gin or whiskey. They all started to taste alike after a while. Harry then fought his way through a jungle empty pizza boxes, dirty laundry and some other mess here and there. Right beside his queen sized bed, was his semi-neat pile of treasure. Here, he kept his music sheets, Luna, his violin, a harmonica named Bellatrix and his guitar, Lily, amongst recording equipment and Mozart's 5th Symphony in C Minor on LP.

He reached for his guitar and tuned the instrument, the melody for Draco's song already in his head. It was going to be a slow, bluesy number with scratchy, raw guitar riffs and a very long and loud chorus. The chorus was the most important part of a song - according to Draco. The longer and louder, the better.

Harry couldn't help the brief smile, that was washing over his face. Draco was possibly the most tone deaf person on the planet and could not really tell a good song from some random radio only the lyrics would call to him.

For the next few days, Harry drunk some more, then wrote some more, just to start the same routine all over again. Filled with the desire to find all the right words to put into his composition, he blended everything else completely out of his life. And it felt good. He didn't want to think about reality. Living inside this little bubble felt good. Perfect.

Only a few days later, Draco's song was finally completed. Harry had pulled two all-nighters to work on the lyrics, that all of a sudden appeared inside his head and demanded to be written down.

Harry was even satisfied with his composition, a beautifully haunting melody with a surprisingly cheery guitar solo, that somehow complimented the piece and made it complete in a way. This was a very rare occurrence. Usually, he didn't like his work and though it rubbish. Therefore, most of his songs ended in the bin, or - if they were deemed to be passable - in a pile on the bottom of his wardrobe, sharing space with a random collection of shoes, underwear and unopened telephone bills. Maybe, he supposed, this was the result of a much needed creativity overflow, causing him to completely forget about time or the life surrounding him. He hadn't paid attention to day or night, a rumbling stomach or a dry throat. He hadn't felt so productive in ages. Quite contrary, keeping focused on his art had been rather hard. Draco always used to blame it on Harry's constantly phlegmatic mood.

The memory of a conversation he had with Draco a while ago in the small, downtrodden pub just across the road, where both of them loved to go for their random Sunday afternoon ramblings came to his mind. Hidden away in a rundown building, slightly crooked with old age, was the usually dimly lit hovel called Three Broomsticks. It was decorated with fading upholstery and carpets, and had an overall flair of mothballs and knitted socks that mainly attracted elderly customers. A pint of Stella for Harry and a Carling for Draco, their usual order was already waiting for them on the table. It was a good place for traditions.

It was the end of a rainy and severely foggy and dull day, which didn't do a lot to improve Harry's already depressed mood. Both of them occupied their standard seats at one of the frail little tables, squeezed between the counter and a small side window, that hid a burned down, scented candle. Just about an hour earlier, he had finished a long, tiring shift at the probably largest and worst Sainsbury's in town: ten dreadful hours of shelf-stocking, dealing with self important, so-called managers with a similar IQ to a pig that failed sty college twice, and even more horrible customers. This was definitely not how he had pictured his life to turn out. "My parents had always wanted me to have a proper academic education. Always kept on telling me to become a lawyer, a doctor, a banker or something else that comes with a pine-stripe suit. They never understood that this wasn't me." He stopped his ranting for a moment to take another sip of his pint. "I remember the day that I received my acceptance letter from Hogwarts school for singers and musicians. Now they would finally accept that music is who I am. And not only that, but that I am good at it. That I really have the talent to archive my dreams of playing the main violin in an orchestra. They had known that this was what I've always wanted." His now shaking hand longed for the pint glass again and within moments, the beverage was drowned in one big gulp, before the young man continued: "Obviously I was wrong. My parents somehow managed to talked me out of it, saying that they wouldn't support me and that a career in music would turn me into a drug addicted layabout. Me, still being a stupid teenager at the time believed them. I nodded my head, like the little idiot I was and send my application to the LSE one week later." He looked at Draco with big, green eyes, a faraway expression on his face and whispered: "I could play concerts right now, fill the Royal Albert Hall, the Barbican Hall. Hell, I could be at the Carnegie Hall in fucking New York City right now. I had all the options in the world!" his voice raised louder, until he shouted the last sentence from the top of his lungs, causing everyone in the pub to stop what they were doing and stare at enraged young man. Other then Harry's shouting, the place was dead quiet. Stupid me listened to my parents and what? Did I get any fancy, precious decrees? Am I the upcoming big-shot lawyer in town? I fucking failed uni, dropped out and what? Instead of filling concert halls with my music, I fill stupid shelves with stupid toilet rolls in a stupid warehouse for stupid eight hours or more a day!" Without realising it, he had rocketed out of his seat. Fuming, angry, his fist raised along with his voice. He was breathing like an ox after a long run up a hill and was wearing the bewildered expression of a guerilla who just realised that someone had stolen his last banana.

Red faced with embarrassment, he sat down again and ended his speech in a more mellow tone: "They ruined my life. They claimed to love me, to know what was best for me, but all they did was to successfully destroy the person I was and to extinguish the person I could have been."

Harry had a small smile on his face as he remembered Draco's surprisingly successful attempts to calm him down. He had been sitting across from him, like always. His face was downcast, but with a small, knowing smile on his lips, because he had heard the same speech over and over again. He had been playing with his empty glass, like always. This time, his fingernails were manicured in a bright green colour. His hair was moulded into an artful shaggy cut.

Harry pulled a face. Draco had used to change his hairstyle more frequently than other people would do their grocery shopping.

As soon as Harry finished his rant and everyone else continued to mind their own business again, Draco took his customary, dramatically deep breath and put his smaller hand on top of Harry's. "You know, I'm actually quite happy that you work in that stupid warehouse, because otherwise I would have never met you," he smiled genuinely. It was lighting up his entire face. "Also, you wouldn't be the person that you are now, and I like you very much just the way you are." He squeezed Harry's hand for a moment. "Maybe you would be a sophisticated, world travelling musician by now with a tight schedule, that spreads all over the world, but you wouldn't be you, you know. And what music would you play? Mozart? Tschaikovsky? Pieces written by certainly brilliant, well known and admired people who had a story to tell that people still enjoy listening to nowadays. Think about it. Whom would people remember after leaving one of your concerts? Would they go like 'Oh, I've just listened to the most amazing Harry Potter,' or would they be more inclined to rave about someone who's now a 200 year old corpse?"

Harry had to roll his eyes at that comment. No one was allowed to disgrace Mozart in his presence. Ever! Draco obviously knew that, but shrugged his shoulders. "You might not be famous, nor an orchestra player, but you have life experience, had so many odd jobs, met so many different people and have your own story to tell, and, if it is in your destiny to become famous one day, you would be remembered for who you really are and not as a violin playing robot."

Harry glanced out of his window with a faraway look in his eyes and a freshly lit up cigarette between his lips. It wasn't what Draco told him that always made him feel better, but the genuine care behind those words. Draco had always been someone who saw the best in things, something he truly envied. Well... learned to envy. Draco and him didn't hit off all too well when they first met.

Draco had been the force of nature, that hit him smack in the middle of a dull working day, filled with boring shelves to stock, when his supervisor approached him with this new employee in tow. The bright orange shirt all employees were required to wear was at least two sizes to big, and almost completely swallowed the short shorts he was wearing. his bare legs were too skinny and too white, his knees too wobbly, and a bright pink unicorn tattoo decorated most of his left thigh. "That's a very pink tattoo," Harry had stammered awkwardly in odd resemblance of a greeting. His social skills had always varied from a bit awkward to non-existent. Mr Snape, the supervisor had rolled his eyes at the odd display of oral skill and introduced them to another. Then he assigned Harry the task of training the newbie. Draco had just just grinned, shrugged his shoulders and offered that he had even pinker tattoos in pinker places and winked at his obviously very embarrassed colleague.

After inaugurating Draco into the secrets of shelf-stocking, Harry got back to the section he was working on before getting interrupted. Even more miserable then before, he continued to thunk stupid sanitary pads into their assigned spots and involuntarily listened to random conversations he didn't understand. He hated his live, his dull job, his stupid colleagues, whom mostly could not even hold a simple conversation in English and chatted in random 'foreign' to another. Harry assumed that the lot of them probably stopped attending school at the age of ten or so to start a career in labour work. The voice in his head, that always kind of sounded like his old 10th form sociology teacher Mr Dumbledore, kept on nagging him to admit, that the newest edition to the team looked rather cute and did not actually sound as stupid as some other mutants that somehow managed to find employment there. 'Maybe,' he thought, having Draco here will be a good thing. He would be another outsider just like him. Perhaps, they could work towards some kind of mutually miserable commeradice.

This was the only positive thought he had had during that day, and it was brutally smashed into pieces just a mere moment later.

A very off-key version of an old Van Morrison tune, jerked him out of his short lived happy cloud. Not only did the new colleague successfully slaughter one of his all time favourite songs, he also seemed to enjoy the work he was doing and this was absolutely outrageous! He was certain this went against more than just one unwritten work codex! None of the shelf stockers in the stupid warehouse was supposed to actually enjoy their work! Ever!

And it should get worse.

Another one of Harry's favourite songs got slaughtered next and a third one followed after! Not only that, but even more song followed the day after and throughout the entire week. That philistine seemed to have memorised the entire Van Morrison Greatest Hits Collection and decided to punish him, day by day, for his mere existence in crying them in his saw-like, off-key voice and often mispronounced lyrics until the songs were almost unrecognisable.

What made it worse was that more and more of their colleagues joined in and the nightly shelf stocking became a funny little singing session!They all had fun at work and the blonde devil started it!

Oh, how Harry had hated Draco from the beginning. He was a demon send straight from hell into real life to make his life a living nightmare.

"Why don't you like happy people?" Draco approached him one day and asked, but then walked away before Harry could open his mouth to answer. Somehow that question got stuck in his stupid head and left him pondering over the words for the rest of his shift.

Why didn't he like happy people?

Because he wasn't? Well, how could anyone be happy, being stuck in a life like this? His traitorous eyes and ears shifted over the hall, where the chatter and singing still went on. 'Well', the just as traitorous, little Mr Dumbledore-alike voice in his head provided: 'It seems that apart from yourself, everyone can'. So why was he so miserable?

"You can't let go," Draco told him the next day and - again - left him to mull over his words. What did he mean? He did not even know him! Did he enjoy playing those stupid mind games with him? Moodily, Harry continued to stock the same goddamn shelf he was working on for forever. He then noticed that he had put the female hygiene products into the shaving supplies section and the shaving supplies onto the stationary shelf. Cussing life in general, he was just about to start the task all over, in a mood much worse than before, when Mr Snape, decided to hop along, right in time to tell him off for his well practised interpretation of a snail in real time.

Harry almost stabbed him with a super-sized tampon that had fallen out of one of the boxes.

When break time finally and graciously approached, he ran out of the building with super-human speed to light up a cigarette in an hopeless attempt to calm his overheating nerves. Dare that evil blonde and his bottomless cheerfulness!

Too late he realised that he wasn't the only person with a nicotine addiction currently on break. Clad in his oversized work shirt, the tiny shorts and the obligatory, ugly Ugg boots, Draco sat cross-legged in the middle of the cold sidewalk, smoking a roll-up and humming yet another mangled Van Morrison song to himself. "This is good for you, you know," he remarked randomly as soon as he noticed Harry's presence behind him. Harry looked from his cigarette to Draco's, then back and looked at him with an obvious you-are-a-complete-nut-case expression written all over his face. "I'm not talking about smoking, you self diagnosed dunderhead! I'm talking about being angry, allowing yourself to let go of those emotions that have been stuck inside of you for way too long," Draco explained and nodded to himself. "I've studied psychology for a while, until I decided that this wasn't what I wanted to do for the rest of my life and quit." He shrugged his shoulders, and put his nose up in the air, probably expecting some respect for that achievement.

"But it didn't stop you from looking for your very own charity case!" Harry growled. "Go, look for someone else to fill that position, I'm not interested!" With that, he flicked his cigarette at Draco's knee and left without apologising. It was a mere coincidence anyway. His aim was too bad to actually plan that attack. Not that he would ever admit that though.

A moment later, he stopped, scratched his head and turned around. Damn his stupid curiosity. "Just by the way, what am I supposed to let go?" He knew that he would dwell on this for the rest of his shift otherwise. Draco shrugged: "Whatever it is that went wrong in your life."

"What the heck are you on about?" Harry's interest was captivated now and he sat down next to the intriguing blonde. "You just kinda look like a diabetic child with the biggest bowl of delicious ice-cream, chocolate sauce and whipped cream in the world in front of them. The child throws a tantrum, is upset, then miserable and pouty and fails to realise that a completely sugar-free replica of said ice-cream bowl is available if they only ask for it." he looked at Harry with his big, gray-blue eyes. "You're just like my father in that sense, but he's a hopeless case." Draco threw his cigarette butt on the road and got up. "Get a nice hobby, play music for example." Draco skipped back into the warehouse, a smirk decorating his face, just as if he had known that this was the very root of Harry's misery.

Harry starred after him and slowly started shaking his head in bewilderment.

Now, sitting on his sofa with the completed song in his hands, this was one of the favourite memories he had of Draco. His perceptiveness and brazenness had always managed to free him from the smallest and most miserable holes that he constantly dug for himself. It was Draco, who bought him Lily, his beloved guitar. He did no longer remember what her exact words were, but it was something amongst the lines of: "When classic music fails you, try becoming a rock-star instead.

And for the first time in ages, Harry felt content.


	2. Chapter 2

_Kicking Cotton Balls_

The news about Draco just wouldn't stop. Not that there were any new details to dig out, but the papers sold. Nothing was better for a gossip magazine's revenue than a well chewed out tragedy.

On a daily basis reporters now knocked on Harry's door or rang his phone, but he wanted nothing more than to be left alone. His relationship with Draco, whatever it was, was not anyone else's business. Harry still hadn't managed to figure out how those bloodsuckers obtained his number in the first place. Flushing the infernal device down the toilet became more and more tempting with each and every anonymous call that he religiously ignored. "Saint Mozart and his Holy 5th Symphony!" Harry exclaimed flabbergasted when they started to call him even in the middle of the night.

Persistent reporters, armed with cameras, microphones and too intimate questions, waited patiently outside his door and turned Harry into a self-exiled prisoner. His annoyance grew with every passing hour. The new recluse had completely refused to leave his flat for the last two weeks. Even all of life's necessities had been delivered directly to the door of his flat, kudos to Domino's pizza and the Tesco online shop.

Even Draco's funeral was held without his attendance.

'peep... peep... peeeep... peeeeeeeeeeeeep'

Some God-awful noise ripped Harry out of his sleep the next morning. Unfortunately, even though his own life was on standstill at the moment, his neighbours still had jobs they needed to go to.

'peep... peep... peeeep... peeeeeeeeeeeeep'

Or perhaps not. At least downstairs-guy seemed to be more than content to sleep through his blasting alarm clock. "Wanker," Harry grumbled and threw a pillow over his head. Closing his eyes again, with the soft feathered blanket wrapped cosily around his body, Harry turned to the other side, ready to travel back to la-la-land, when...

'peep... peep... peeeep... peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep'

Did downstairs-guy die in his sleep? Probably the entire building was woken up by now. It cant be human to be able to sleep through that kind of noise. Harry tried to cover his ears with his hands and remain in a comfortable sleeping position at the same time.

'peep... peep... peeeep... peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP'

Harry surrendered and threw his blanket off. Warm feet touched cold ground, when he slouched into the bathroom. In perfect zombie mode, he almost automatically removed his shorts and stepped into the tiny shower cubicle. There was no better way to start a day than with a proper and long shower. Harry yawned and stretched his limbs. The pleasantly warm spray felt like liquid luck on his sleep deprived, aching body.

After he washed his hair and brushed his teeth, Harry reached for his favourite aloe vera washing liquid, which was perfect for a shower wank and poured a generous amount into his hands. Excruciatingly slow, he moved his hand lower and lower until he reached his member and wrapped his hands around the hard shaft in a firm grip and...

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"

The formerly pleasantly warm water had turned into needle shaped ice cubes. Harry hated his Boiler!

No longer in the mood to finish the job, Harry trotted out of the shower and picked some boxers of the carpet and put them on. They felt a bit sticky around his midsection. "Boxers from a happier day,' Harry mumbled and threw them back onto the floor. He picked another pair up. Those smelled clean. He put them on.

With a growling stomach, Harry slouched into his kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Nothing but empty shelves starred back at him. His stomach growled even louder. He needed food or his annoying stomach would cause an earthquake. Empty air was stored in his cupboard and freezer. Even his oven and microwave were lacking any left behind food sources. Bugger!

With a sigh, he realised that he had forgotten to submit the request for a re-delivery of his grocery subscription. Just as he grabbed his phone to place an order for pizza instead, he spotted a greasy looking cardboard box, waving at him from a hiding place underneath his couch. The phone forgotten, Harry went on all fours and crawled all they way to the possible food source.

Something that resembled the quarter of a spinach and tomato pizza greeted him once he opened the box. Harry took a good sniff of the almost still delicious looking piece of junk food and tried to remember which day he ordered it. When nothing came to his mind, he shrugged his shoulders and took a careful bite.

The pizza was not only stale and rock hard, but also lacked any form of dead animal. Harry stilled. The only person who ever brought vegetarian food to his flat was Draco, but he had not been around the week prior to his...

... to that day.

Harry gulped. Whether this was due to the awful memory, or the mouldy stench coming from the halfway de-composted food in his hand he did not know.

Perhaps he would better call Domino's after all. Harry stood up and looked for his phone, the slice of pizza still in his hand.

"Bloody device," he grumbled and kicked a random pile of innocently looking mess, that blocked his way.

Something hard hit his toe. Harry cussed, and kicked the not so innocent pile of mess again. "Ouuuuuuuch!" He shouted, when he stubbed the same bloody toe one more time. Craving to know which of his evil belongings had had the nerve to hit him in such an undignified manner, Harry put the stale piece of food back into his mouth, to have both hands available to dig through his stuff.

Underneath camouflaging laundry, whether clean or dirty, he neither knew nor cared, cowered a half full bottle of Captain Morgan. Harry decided he deserved a glass.

Still merrily chewing on the slice, Harry moved to the kitchen to grab a glass, only to find his sink empty. 'Riiiight...,' he realised and looked at the impressive puddle of shards, he promised himself to mop away two days ago. His eyes widened when he realised how close he came to step right into it.

With another bite, he pledged to wipe the mess away tomorrow, then took a swig right out of the bottle. With a happy sigh, he sat down at his kitchen table and realised that he just ate the entire slice of rotten pizza.

'It didn't even taste half as bad', he mused.

The following night Harry's sleep was disturbed, not only by severe stomach pain, but also because of a turmoil inside of him. Part of him told him to shut down, close up and take a break from that stupid little thing called life. The other part, or better said, his consciousness told him the complete opposite: "Life is too short to let it waste it away in misery. Get a grip on your stupid self and look for the things worth living for." The voice sounded suspiciously like Draco.

"You're one to talk," muttered Harry. "I wouldn't feel half as miserable if you were here."

Nevertheless, a picture of Draco, kicking his lazy arse off the couch came to the forefront of his mind and Harry had to grin a little at that. Perhaps, he should start looking better after himself. Draco would be rather disappointed otherwise.

But Harry knew that it was too early to enjoy life again.

At least downstairs-guy's alarm clock had been silent that day.

'peep... peep... peeeep... peeeeeeeeeeeeep'

Or not. Harry growled.

In a slight attempt to gain a resemblance of normal-ness back into his life, Harry decided to clean the small flat that day. Or, at least get rid of the health and safety hazards, he seemed to have collected. With a newly found determination, he collected chocolate wrappers, empty bottles and various items of clothing and dumped them into the tiny shower stall for safekeeping, then tried to locate his hoover. He didn't find it in the wardrobe, nor underneath the bed. It was too large to hide in one of his drawers or the kitchen cupboard. Harry scratched his head. He barely avoided stepping into that pile of shards again on his mission to find that vicious vacuum cleaner.

Harry went on all fours to look underneath his bed, then crawled over to the couch and ripped it apart, too. It seemed, he was doing a much better job in successfully hiding stuff, than the FBI and their Witness Protection Programme could ever dream of.

A new idea slithered into his head, when he spotted some of his music sheets laying astray on the floor.

'Maybe that's a sign that I should do something else', he told the pillow in his hand and starred at the song that he had written for Draco.

The idea felt right. This was the perfect way to present the real Draco to the world, without having to talk to any reporters or go against his own vows to sell Draco's life out to anyone. The lyrics did not mention any name and were rather abstract, but held Draco's heart and soul and showed the person he was through the eyes of someone who really knew him.

Probably the only person that really knew him.

Harry connected a recorder to his old computer, then started the outdated device and pulled Lily out of her case. Once the guitar was tuned, Harry practised the song a few more times, then hit the record button and played the number with all the passion he could muster. Shards and hoover were completely forgotten.

All while he was playing, his thoughts went back to their first holiday together. This was almost two years ago. Back in those days both of them were constantly broke, none of them yet knowing that Draco was only a few months away from the scandal, that would throw his name into the headlines, his head onto magazine covers and his body into the beds of the rich and famous.

They had saved some hard earned money for a weekend trip to Lancashire, were Draco decided to rent a small cottage, right in the middle of nowhere. It had been raining almost constantly through the duration of their trip in the old, blue Volkswagen Beetle, Draco had bought about a month ago. It wasn't worth a penny more then he had spent on it. Draco loved her car dearly though and had named it Lenny, which was short for John Lennon, the only member of 'The Beatles' he actually liked.

Driving from London to Lancashire is a long journey generally, but it stretches even further, when attempting to do said journey in an old and tattered car, that refused to go over 50 miles per hour.

Even the weather was crying for them, sending down heavy raindrops and dark, menacing clouds, but it didn't lessen Draco's good mood in any way. The old fashioned radio was blaring on a classic rock station he had found and both were singing along to 'It Never Rains In Southern California.'

The sky was a dark indigo blue wherever it managed to escape from in-between the heavy blanket of clouds that was spiked here and there with mellow rays of sunlight.

Soon, there would be a thunderstorm. Moist and the scent of freshly cut grass were humidifying the already heavy air.

As they turned into a small side road which slithered through fields and bright green patches of grass, Draco stopped his car. Harry looked at his friend questionably, his hands brushing through the curls at the nape of his neck.

"Something wrong with the car?" he asked, praying that this wasn't the case. They were right in the middle of nowhere. Old gnarly trees were already bending in submission to the uprising tempest. Draco turned to face him, his big grey orbs wide open. "No. What gave you that idea?" He inquired. Harry shrugged and looked around, his eyes resting on a fenced field with a shabby shed right in the middle, where a few black and white cows took shelter from the weather. "I was just wondering, because you stopped the car here without any reason," he finally said. Draco grinned and also turned his eyes towards the little shed. "I just wanted to stop and enjoy the scenery for a moment. And to fulfil a childhood dream." There was a wicked gleam in his eyes and a slightly crooked smirk around his lips: "Did you pack your wellies?"

Harry rolled his eyes, then nodded down to his rubber boot covered feet. Draco giggled and jumped out of the car, not bothering with locking it up.

"Who's here to steal it anyway?" He laughed, when Harry made a face, then ran towards the fence and climbed over it.

Harry kept his stance close to the car and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He was already soaking wet and had no clue what the heck they were visiting cows for. "Come on, Potty!" He heard Draco shout. "Get your sexy arse in here."

Harry took another glance at his happily bouncing friend, who sometimes reminded him much more of a five year old child than the twenty-eight year old guy he actually was.

"Draco Abraxas Malfoy," he used his entire name to sound stern, but failed because he stumbled over the unusual middle name, as usual: "You are a complete nutter!"

He was graced with loud laughter for an answer: "And you, Harry Potter, are a complete bore! Now come in here, before I get old and wrinkled!"

Harry did what he usually did when Draco told him to do something and complied. A moment later, both of them were running around the field, jumping into cow-pats with full force, and shrieking in glee when they splattered their clothes.

And probably scared the cows to death.

Harry felt overwhelmed with this memory of this perfect holiday. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so ended up doing both.

It was only a small acoustic audio record, but it was beautiful in its simpleness. The lyrics to 'Kicking Cotton Balls' were witty, sad and hilarious at the same time.

Once his song was uploaded on YouTube, Harry watched a bit of television, but unfortunately every channel only showed crap and he did not feel like watching a DVD. He decided to turn in early instead in anticipation of an involuntary early rising, courtesy of downstairs-guy's alarm clock, tomorrow morning.

When Harry woke up the next morning, he felt utterly relaxed. He hadn't had a good night's rest like that in a very long while. He yawned, stumbled out of his comfortable bed, prepared himself a delicious cup of his beloved coffee and simultaneously lit up a cigarette.

'peep... peep... peeeep... peeeeeeeeeeeeep' greeted downstairs-guy's alarm clock right on time.

Harry smiled. "Beat you to it, you bloody battery-run wannabe rooster."

Harry took a seat at his kitchen table, from where he spotted his computer still sitting on the couch. Curiously, he padded over and brought his laptop to the kitchen, wiped some crusts and magazines off the table to make some space for the heavy old thing and started it up. He was anxious to see whether his humble video already found a small audience. Deep inside, he ached for his song to be loved, just the way he still loved Draco.

Two coffee's and half a pack of cigarettes later (yes, Harry's computer was that old and slow,) he looked at the screen with a gob-smacked expression. Eight-Hundred and Eighty-Three hits for his uploaded song in a bit less than twelve hours! That was so much more than he had ever dared to dream of. Even more incredible was that most visitors had clicked on the 'like' button, or left an encouraging comment.

During that day, Harry couldn't help himself, but press the reload button for at least another ten or eleven times. When it was already late enough to be a reasonable time to go to bed, the hits were standing at a proud Nine-Hundred and Thirty-Seven. Saint Mozart and his Holy 5th Symphony! That was bat-shit crazy!


	3. Chapter 3

Foreign Fish Food

1844 hits! One-thousand-eight-hundred and forty-four! That was an incredibly large number and Harry had a hard time believing his own eyes when he starred at the computer screen the next morning.

Over twenty comments had been left as well, praising the song. His mouth was gaping and gave him the expression of a goldfish. "One more time," Harry mumbled to himself and pressed the reload button. One-thousand-eight-hundred and forty-seven, it read this time, and that was only within two minutes. He shook his head again.

This wasn't the first song he had ever uploaded onto his youtube account. About one and a half years ago, Draco had sparked his interest in music again, after a long time of abstention. On a happy high, he had composed a few songs and uploaded them, hoping to generate some interest in his musical skills, but the response was rather poor. The songs went mainly ignored and only a handful of comments were written in response.

As he usually did in such situations, Harry moved back into his shell, convinced that perhaps he wasn't supposed to have his dream career, especially not in the song writing and song composing field. Now, he sparsely used his account and mainly only to share the few live shows he was doing locally.

If he was quite honest with himself, he only ever did that to please Draco, because he wouldn't have liked to see him giving up.

In a good mood, Harry jumped into the shower and whistled a happy little melody, he just made up, and took his time to tame his wild hair. He decided against a fresh shave. Growing a beard would not only make him look manlier (hopefully), but also hide his face from the noisy reporters who still didn't seem to be bored, waiting outside his flat for his eventual appearance. Once finished, Harry looked for his beanie and scarf. Along with oversized sweater, jeans and trainers, he hoped to be able to sneak out without getting recognised and bothered.

Then, for the first time in two weeks, Harry left his flat and made his way towards the closest tube station. A grin played around his lips once he got on the train. It seemed like his plan worked. None of the parasites outside his home had noticed him leaving the building.

1 for Harry, 0 for the reporters.

He continued whistling his happy melody, but the crowd on the tube didn't seem to mind at all. Quite a few friendly smiles were thrown into his direction, whether they were doing that because his good mood was contagious or because they didn't want to upset the looney on the train, Harry neither knew nor cared.

Even the fact that he was going to meet Pansy again could not disminish his fantastic mood.

Pansy was Harry's most favourite person in the world - when someone started counted from the bottom. She was somewhat of a manager at the tube station Harry was heading to for a spontaniously arranged last minute busking session.

How she managed to get the manager position Harry would never understood, unless being, rude, useless and ugly were the main qualifications needed for that job, along with knowing every single cuss-wold the English language.

Pansy looked about fifty years old, but was probably no day older than himself. She was short, stocky and looked a lot like a hippo on two legs, which had brought her the lovely nickname. Pansy was the name of his favourite fluffy toy when he was a child.

Pansy's hair was wispy and grey, the pink skin on her skull shining through the brittle strands. The most significant feature in her face was the massive, hairy wart right below her pug like nose.

At first sight, he thought Pansy was a guy with a goatee.

It was pretty damn difficult, not to stare at that thing, and Harry never really mastered the skill. Not that he was trying very hard.

Though Pansy hated those 'lazy, music playing bums,' who were 'constantly clustering' her beloved work place as if it was 'a refugee camp for homeless hippies,' she made sure to greet every busker that was blessed with a playing spot at her station, eying the unlucky busker's instruments suspiciously. Particularly amplifiers were on her long list of unwanted equipment.

"That box ain't no instrument, mate! Don't ya dare play'n some hiphiphop rubbish down 'ere!" Harry could never help rolling his eyes at that.

"Ah, it's you again" Pansy greeted him today. "Haven't seen you in awhile. Thought you might've found a proper job by now, lad." Before Harry could get a word in, she continued: "There was this woman, asking for you. Came here at least once a week. Bright red hair, she had and was wearing a suit like a man. But expensive. A posh looking lady, it was. Asked if I knew when ya were playing again."

Harry did indeed faintly remember a woman with that description. The last two times he played at this station, she was there. Not rushing by, like most of the others, but pausing and watching him play.

Harry hadn't thought anything about that. He was flattered about having gained another fan. Sometimes, people stood to listen for a while, if they weren't in a hurry. Especially when he was doing some old Bob Dylan covers.

Soon after, Harry had realised that 'Knocking On Heaven's Door' was the most profitable song is his repertoire, so he kept on playing it up to five, six times during a session. People wouldn't realise if he played just one song on constant repeat anyway. The good thing about busking was the ever-changing audience.

Just the red haired woman never changed. The last two times he played here, she stood and listened for a couple of songs.

Harry started to wonder who she was and what she wanted.

Harry set up his equipment in the allocated spot and started his programme with 'Knocking on Heaven's Door,' which had since become his regular opening song for obvious reason. It did, however, sound different during each session. Sometimes he played a very melancholy and borderline depressing version, sometimes he gave it a bit of an uplifting touch, depending on his personal mood.

Today it was a very cheerful and quirky version.

Another cover song followed, then Harry started the first few chords to 'Kickin' Cotton Balls'. The red haired woman was completely wiped from his mind. Harry was so lost in his music that he wouldn't have been able to tell were and what he was anymore.

It was the unexpected applause a moment later, that brought him back to reality. Quite a number of people had stopped to listen to his music.

That was a first.

In the middle of it, was the red haired woman, who gave him a small nod before she rushed along.

Once Harry's busking session was over, he packed his equipment and left the station in a rush. He didn't feel like bumping into Pansy again.

As he was already close to Trafalgar Square, he decided to stroll around one of Draco's favourite spots in town. He bought himself a large cup of coffee and crammed his way through the massive crowds of tourists that, as usual, photographed their lives did his best to avoid stepping accidentally in front of anyone's camera and made his way towards the National Gallery.

Draco used to come there rather frequently, usually accompanied by Harry. They would bring their sketchbooks, pastels and charcoals, find a wing that was not already occupied by entire primary schools or art students, and tried their best to copy the famous paintings, most of the time with ridiculous results.

Harry had been surprised that the afternoons in the museum weren't overly long stretched, dull and boring, but quite interesting and fun. He had adapted a new formed respect for the likes of DaVinci, Van Gogh and Monet.

Within a couple of months, both of them knew the museum by heart, but that didn't mean they got bored. Draco had this theory, that it didn't matter how often they would see a picture, as there would always be something new to discover, or something to interpret differently every time you look at it.

"After all," he used say in an adapted wannabe-posh accent: "Art does not affect the logical part of your brain, like a math question does, but your emotions and your mood. And as they tend to change, so does your view on the art you're looking at."

Harry always had to hold back a grin, whenever Draco told him that in his most earnest voice, his big eyes wide open, nodding at the brilliance of his assumption, utterly satisfied with himself.

To Harry it sounded similar to what his third form music teacher, Ms Sprout, told his class at the start of every lesson. He was convinced that Draco probably read this statement on a pamphlet or advertisement poster once.

The more knowledgeable they became (or pretended to be), the more discussions they got into. Draco liked surrealistic work and was especially a fan of Salvador Dali. "His works are just so fascinating," he used to say. "It's like each single painting has at least a million stories to tell. Its like a prettier version of the Grimm brothers."

Harry disagreed, saying that there was nothing to discover in those pictures, they looked weird. Like something only a drug addict old ever come up with. He preferred the works of John McLaughlin.

He had to bark out a laughter as he remembered what Draco once said about his preferred artist choice.

 _Draco had never heard of McLaughlin before, so he googled his pictures when they came home after a day of long discussions at the museum. "Hell no!" The blonde, who wore dreadlocks that day, exclaimed and wrinkled his nose when some of McLaughlin's paintings where shown on the screen. "That's not art at all," he shook his head, eyes wide open in shock and his nose scrunched up. "That is just extremely accurately painted fish food!" He turned around to look at Harry, a cheeky expression on his face, the one he always wore, when he was overwhelmed with the brilliantness of his own statement._

 _Harry just rolled his eyes, but hid the gesture behind his overgrown fringe. This was such a typical Draco moment! "I've never seen fish food that looks anything like this," he remarked._

 _Looked at him, Draco huffed and bit on the inside of his cheek. He released it with a pop. "Foreign fish food does." He looked up, eyebrow raised. Harry hid a grin. That was another typical Draco arguement. He patted Draco's head, told him that he was the funniest, most brilliant person he ever met and invited him for a drink in a close-by pub._

Today was the first time he ever entered the museum alone. It felt weird, wrong and awkward. It felt like a good-bye, over and over and over again, but it was something, he felt he had to do. His knees were a bit shaky as he walked up the stairs to the entrance.

The cooled down cup of coffee was still full to the brim and tight in his shaking hand, as he approached the first wing. The Renaissance. Draco's least favourite part of the museum, and therefore probably the best place to start. No significant memories attached.

Slowly, he was walking through the rectangular rooms, filled with haughty pictures. Harry always felt that they were starring down at him. They were all Lords and Ladies, Kings and Queens or Saints and who was he? Random visitor number 203,903,034,332 or something like that. A nobody. Probably, if oil colour was just a bit more flexible, all of them would have wrinkled their posh and powdered noses at him by now. He shuddered. It felt like their starring had become more intense. It was spooky, really. Harry looked up at the portrait of an old man, completely dressed in black, but with an impressively ruffled, white collar, whose eyes seemed to follow him through the room. Yet, his irises never moved.

He took a deep breath and tried to ignore him by focusing on a different picture. A woman with a scornful expression seemed to mock him from across the room. He gulped and turned to the opposite site. Shaking. The coffee in his hand was long forgotten and spilled over his shirt sleeves. Harry didn't notice.

Maybe the renaissance wing wasn't the best place to start after all. He hated how the high and mighty people looked down on him, followed him with their eyes, as if they were short of jumping out of their picture frames! Harry felt that had to get out of there as quickly as he could.

A little cherub was watching Harry in the next room. Its innocent, round and blue eyes were set on Harry. They looked just like Draco's.

Another gulp.

More unnoticed coffee spillage.

A second cherub was sitting right next to the first. It had exactly the same eyes. Draco's eyes. They were starring through him. Harry was sweating. Was it Draco looking at him through those angels?

There was a third cherub with similar eyes. Harry tried his best to avoid looking at it. He was sweating. His heart was pounding.

What the heck was happening to him?

Another cherub picture.

Harry looked away. He couldn't take another set of Draco's eyes starring at him. His entire body started to shake and he felt hot and cold. It was one for the weirdest sensations he had ever experienced. There were goose-bumps crawling up his arms while his back was sheathed in sticky sweat.

The cup of coffee fell noisily to the ground.

Harry didn't notice.

His feet hurried him though the building, without any guidance from his frozen brain. As if on autopilot, his elbows were fighting for a way through thickly spread crowds of people.

Harry exhaled. He sat down. Upon looking around the room, he realised that he was surrounded by a large group of foreign students who were listening to a guide, probably their teacher, who gestured a lot and talked in a language Herman didn't understand. The students weren't concentrating though. One after the other turned to look at Harry instead with large, bulging eyes. All of them had oversized eyes. They were round and blue. As the students kept on starring, they grew even further in size. Harry found himself looking at nothing but a wall of bulging big blue eyes.

His heart beat erratically. He could no longer breath. Never before had he felt a similar experience, but currently he had sweat travelling down his arms, his forehead and his cheeks as he was panting heavily in a corner. He had to close his eyes and count to twenty, before his breathing mellowed just a little. His heart still felt like it planned to thump out of his chest anytime soon.

With tumbling knees, Harry managed to leave the building at the closest exit and stumbled down the stairs to the big open space of Trafalgar Square.

It had started to rain and most people found refugee in one of the surrounding pubs and restaurants, leaving the Square almost deserted. Only few people were strolling down the steps here and there, braving the weather with big and bright umbrellas. Harry felt new panic creeping up in him. In his twisted mind, he saw all of them turning around and stare at him with the same blue eyes.

His heart started to hammer faster than before. He pressed his body against a building, closed his eyes and monitored his breathing. The place, no matter how wide and open it was, caged him, shackled him to his new-found fear. Every step away from the crowd was a mixture of effort and hard concentration. Twice, he managed to loose his sense of orientation, before he escaped into a small side street, a mere twenty feet away.

Harry had lost all sense of time and found himself unable to recall how long he ended up staying there, his knees buckled, his hands resting on his thighs and his head bent downwards, as if trying to hide it between his arms.

Finally, the feeling of anxiety slowly decreased.

It didn't disappear in any way but it mellowed significantly. He sank down. Relieved.

But what to do now?

He pulled his phone from a pocket and called a cab. There was no way he would be able to venture towards one of the close-by, crowded underground stations or take a similarly crowded bus.

Harry was almost back to normal by the time a taxi had safely brought him home. Though being almost broke, he graciously handed the driver his fare, plus a ten pound tip when he got out of the car.

Once back inside, Harry lit up a well deserved cigarette. He had desperately needed one ever since emerging the bloody museum. With shaking fingers, he opened yet another bottle of vodka. At least a quarter of the bottle was spilled before he tasted the first drop of alcohol on his tongue. Alcohol made the fears go away. Alcohol was good. He decided that he deserved some reward for his hassles today, so he started his computer again. He had been out for more than five hours, so there was a good chance that the number of viewers had increased yet again. The logical, Mr Dumbledore part of his brain told him not to get too overexcited, as the interest in the video was due to slow down at one point, but when had Harry ever listened to Mr Dumbledore? The guy was a high school teacher who wore the same amount of hairspray as George Michael in the 1980's for crying out loud.

Slower than ever, his computer loaded and loaded the page.

Usually, this was the moment he would walk into the kitchen to get himself another cup of coffee and cigarette, but he was just not in the mood for a second helping at the moment as he anxiously jumped up and down on his chair. "Faster, faster, come on," he told his old and chunky device. The stubborn piece of technology seemed to be immune to his cheering and chanting and continued to proceed in snail pace.

Finally, a new number stared back at him. In the mere few hours that he was gone, the amount of people that had watched his video had almost doubled! Two-thousand, nine-hundred-thirty-four it read in big fat grey letters on the top, right next to the thumbnail of the video.

Another drink was neccessary. Harry poured himself a glass of Jack Daniel's.

A big one!

He sat down on the couch and turned the television on. After the same stupid TV shows, the same old advertisements and BBC's hopeless attempt at unbiased news, he decided to leave the confounds of his tiny flat for the second time this day and go out with some friends that he hadn't seen in ages. Harry was determined to have a good leaving-the-house experience before he went to bed that night and went through the contacts list in his phone, pondering whom to call while mentally crossing out names as he scrolled down.

Blaise was out of the question and so was Daphne, their evening out would probably end in a long mourning session for Draco.

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. Just seeing their names in his phone directory brought back memories he wasn't ready to see yet. He quickly went further down, decreasing the number of people he wanted to see in high speed.

Finally his eyes got stuck on the name Ron.

Ron was one of his co-worker's at the warehouse. He was Polish and only had a very basic knowledge of English, but could probably drink everyone under the table, judged by his frame. The man in question was standing at a good six foot four and was married to his Virgin Active Fitness studio membership card. "Perfect" Harry thought as he decided to send a text message.

He didn't have to wait long for the answer. Ron agreed to meet him around eight at a local, downtrodden pub, that, according to Draco was drowning in 'mutants'. He had never sat a foot in there, which meant the place was one-hundred-percent memory free.

Ron would also bring his brothers Fred and George, who were also working at the warehouse, but Harry had never really spoken to them. He didn't care as long as he could have a few drinks in company.

He glanced at his clock. It was just after seven p.m. He had a good twenty-odd minutes before it was time to leave for the pub, so he decided to quickly find some fresh clothes for the night. He even applied a bit of deodorant, something that he had neglected severely over the last couple of weeks, and then, after checking that he took ID, keys, cigarettes and phone with him, left the house.

Harry woke up the next morning, no longer remembering how he got home. Relieved by the fact that he woke up in his own bed, he noted that he still wore last nights outfit, including both shoes and was alone. He did have a pounding headache, but that was to be expected. Crawling out off his bed and towards the tiny shelf underneath the bathroom sink, where he kept his aspirins, paracetamols and some herbal little helpers, he drowned two pills without the aid of any water. He sat down, put his arms around his legs and rested his forehead on his knees, trying to remember what happened last night. His brain granted him some fuzzy images of a table filled with beer glasses and vodka shots, random laughing faces, colour changing fairy lights and, oddly enough, an oversized, pink strap on dildo. No matter how hard it tried, his brain failed to make any sense out of that one. He would have to ask Ron when he saw him again at work.

Or perhaps not.

It was a great night though. They were laughing, joking and the conversation had been light enough, which had just been perfect. A night to forget. Not to forget Draco, but to forget that he was now alone.

Harry crawled towards his fluffy couch. He didn't want to go back to bed, but he didn't feel ready to start the day, so a nap on the couch would be the perfect alternative. He just hoped the aspirins would kick in quickly, otherwise it would be another day spent dead to the world, and he had to agree that he has had enough of them lately. Draco would have kicked his lazy bum big time.

No matter how bad it hurt his head, he had to laugh at the vivid image.


	4. Chapter 4

Christmas Turkey Sequins

Harry didn't really know what had hit him in the head this morning. Whatever it was, it hit him hard and good.

Somehow he had felt the urge to purchase a Christmas tree this year.

The evidence of his actions was squeezed tight in between his arms and stood at a proud six food, wearing a coat of spiky needles that constantly pinched his arms. He was Jewish for Christ's sake.

"I really should have ordered a taxi to get this monstrosity home!" He grumbled into his beard while he glared suspiciously around his rather tight and unstable surroundings. He was currently occupying approximately zero point seven square feet on line 98, squeezed in between a baby stroller and half a dozen Tesco's shopping bags. Said bags continuously banged against his knees, whilst their owner, an elderly, hunched over woman, tried to keep herself upright on the speeding bus.

The air was moist, sticky and too warm, the windows foggy and an awful stench of wet winter coat and cold sweat attacked his nose. At each stop, more people squeezed themselves into the non-existent space. Passengers were lined up all the way to the driver's seat, some were even standing or sitting on the steps to the upper level and shopping bags clustered everywhere. In the back of the lower row was a second Christmas tree, seated. It was a bit smaller than Harry's though.

"Next stop Kilburn High Road" a robotic, female voice blurred from the speakers. A few passengers emerged and the journey became a bit more bearable. Harry guessed that he now had almost zero point nine square feet to himself. Due to his back luck, Tesco bag woman and baby stroller remained on board. Baby stroller baby didn't seem to appreciate the fact either and started wailing.

Aggravated, Harry looked for the mother, but no one came to calm the little one down. The wailing got louder.

Five more stops to go.

At the next stop, a group of students got onto the bus. They appeared to be around thirteen or fourteen years old, clad into stiff school uniforms with heavy winter jackets on top. One of the boys starred at him, then pointed his finger directly at his face. Or the christmas tree. He couldn't be sure.

A couple of heads turned into his direction and he was openly gawked at. "Stupid children," Harry thought. "Do they honestly believe Christmas trees walk themselves home nowadays?" He made stupid faces at them.

Stroller baby continued wailing.

Fortunately, there were only three more stops to go until he could get of that blasted bus. He took a deep breath. A very deep breath - just to realise that this hadn't been a good idea as he had immediately smelled the reason for stroller baby's distress. Urgh!

Again, he looked for a mother, father, granny, nanny, anyone to tend to the baby. No one seemed to bother. It seemed, stroller baby was travelling by him- or herself.

"Mark!"

"Mark, hey listen Mark!"

"Mark, are you listening to me?"

"Mark, Mark are you listening?"

"Mark?" A teenager shouted. Harry grumbled. It was rather obvious that Mark, whoever this nitwit was, was not listening.

"Hey Mark. Mark, can you hear me Mark?"

Apparently the shouter hadn't come to the the same conclusion - or just generally liked to shout. Harry looked the youngster up and down: baggy jeans that hung around his knees, plaited boxers, awful neon-coloured shirt and a baseball cap = with the price tag still attached.

"I wonder what social services had being doing when his mum dropped him on the head one too many times?" Harry told stroller baby. Stroller baby still wailed and smelled.

"Yo man, Yo man, hey yo man"

Harry turned around to see who was addressing him and found another teenager with oversized headphones standing next to him, nodding his head along to what was assumedly music.

"Yo, everybody is saying yea-hoooooo

yea-hooooo

Yo man, everybody is saying yea-hooooooo"

Harry huffed. Teenagers.

"Yo, Mark! Mark!"

The shouter exclaimed again, looking at the wannabe-rap-star with the headphones.

So this was the elusive Mark. Mark kept on ignoring the shouter.

"Yo bro, everyone is saying..."

Harry didn't get to find out what 'everybody is saying' as the shouter ripped the headphones off Mark to finally gain his attention. Harry was secretly grateful.

"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"

If only someone could shut stroller baby up!

Another stop.

Another good portion of people left the bus. The teenagers, stroller baby and Tesco bag woman remained.

"Figures," Harry mumbled.

Stroller baby replied with a crescendo.

Finally, his stop approached.

Harry attempted to move the large tree off the bus, but found his way blocked, when he saw the old Tesco bag woman trying to juggle her shopping bags and stroller baby off the vehicle. He waited patiently to let her pass, which only earned him a glare. "In my time, a young man would have helped a lady!" She snapped at him. Harry was perplexed. He would have helped, if it wasn't for the green, pine-y smelling monstrosity in his arms! He was just about to apologise when he realised that she hadn't been talking to him but to wannabe-rap-star-Mark and his shouting friend, who squeezed off the bus at the same time.

"In your time, people travelled in horse carriages!" A third boy, whom Harry hadn't seen before, shouted and wrapped his arms around his two friends in what was probably an extremely cool fashion. The three of them laughed.

Harry apologised to Tesco bag woman after that. He felt like he owed her.

Only when he intended to move the large tree down the road did he realise how numb his arms became during the journey. After only a mere ten foot or so, he had to let the tree down for a small rest.

Shuffling around to find a more comfortable carrying position, he ended up throwing the tree over his shoulder. He must look like an idiot, he decided when he realised that by-passers kept starring at him. With clenched teeth he continued his way home.

Why the heck did the buy that stupid thing?

Harry blamed his strange action entirely on Draco who had always gone crazy about Christmas and mutated into a carol-loving cheese-ball for the season.

"I don't even have any decorations at home" he mumbled as he continued home, which was another three long blocks away.

With plenty of breaks, tree shifting, wiggling his fingers to ensure that his blood was still circulating and plenty of cuss words he finally arrived home. "Saint Mozart and his Holy 5th Symphony," he exclaimed and fell onto the couch, vowing himself not to move for at least a day or two. The tree had had the exactly same idea and decided to fall onto him this very moment.

Later that day, Harry had a good look around his tiny living space, trying to find some space big enough for the excessively large pine tree. Perhaps he should have gone for a smaller one. The tree was almost the same radius as his studio flat and would either need to be right in front of the only window, where it would stop any sunlight from coming in throughout the day, or the narrow corner next to the bathroom door, which would leave him an approximate space of ten inches to squeeze through. He could also put it in front the kitchenette, which would immediately stop him from accessing his food sources for the entire Christmas period.

The world 'why' was hoovering in his head again.

He finally decided that he wouldn't miss his bathroom too much and went along with option number two. He would just forfeit any showers for the duration of Christmas and piss into his kitchen sink. Harry nodded to himself. Problem efficiently solved.

He had to admit that the tree looked rather good there.

The only thing left to worry about now was the proper decoration. At first, Harry thought about popping into the big Tesco's around the corner, that would certainly sell all kinds of fancy Christmas decoration. Then a shudder crawled over his shoulders at the idea of the massive crowd, that was probably queuing up this very moment to do their Christmas shopping. He dropped the idea immediately. He didn't need a repeat of the National Gallery incident. The bus had been challenging enough.

A quick look around his meagre belongings did come without any successful results at first. That was, until his eyes were glued on the pile of big, black rubbish bags, that did a lousy job of hiding beside the refrigerator. Harry forfeit to take his rubbish out for a few weeks, so there was quite a chance that he would find something that could be used as Christmas ornaments.

This seemed to be his lucky date. He had indeed found useful Christmas decorations in the otherwise disgusting bags. He would even go as far as saying that it was worth the cut on his finger, which stemmed from a quite impressive amount of shards in one of the bins.

A collection of pretty and colourful beer bottle lids was patiently waiting to be pierced, have a thread pulled through the hole and hung onto his tree.

Harry had never really worried too much about his drinking habits, but the amount of bottle lids he got together was probably enough to decorate the entire tree.

Once finished with his work, he took a proud look at his masterpiece. It certainly wasn't a very traditional Christmas tree, but the different coloured metallic lids did look good and festive. Just the top of the tree still looked a bit too bare for his liking. Harry had to laugh as an idea finally hit him and he rammed through all of his drawers until he found what the was looking for. With a big and goofy grin he returned to the tree and placed a white, sequinned glove on top of it. "The disastrous turkey dinner," he said to no one in particular and grinned stupidly at the opposite wall, while he opened a bag of crisps. The exact same brand that had caused quite some havoc last year. Harry chuckled at the memory of last years pre-Christmas dinner at Blaise and Daphne's.

It had been the three of them, Draco, a colleague of Blaise who's name he couldn't remember and Daphne's sister Astoria.

It was a cold evening, the wind was blowing strongly, bending every umbrella that was trying to fight against its strength. The street was lit up in colourful Christmas lights and 'Last Christmas' was blurring out of the radio, like every year. People were rushing along with heavy shopping bags, and here and there some children were having snowball fights.

It would have been an eerie atmosphere if it wasn't for the constant blurring of sirens in the background, which was probably the most profound difference between an idyllic village in the snowy mountains and a pulsing city.

The room smelled of delicious food and sparkled with carefully placed decorations. Three men were slouched on a fluffy couch in front of the television, watching an episode of 'In-Betweeners'.

At the same time, two women were turning the kitchen into a battlefield in an attempt to cook turkey for the first time. A third person was trying to keep up with the pile of dirty dishes they created in the process.

It was their first Christmas dinner together, planned as a homey and cosy evening at Blaise and Daphne's newly bought townhouse.

After the meal, they would swap presents, open a bottle of wine (or two) and watch a few Christmas DVDs. At least, that was the original plan.

It was already nine p.m. and the dinner should have been eaten by now, but the turkey was still roasting in the oven and barely had a tan. The sauce, made from scratch, was of a semi-solid consistence, that somehow wouldn't change no matter how much water they added and the baby potatoes were mushy and cold.

The guys just opened a bag of crisps to soothe their growling stomachs when Daphne emerged the kitchen, a pile of plates and cutlery in her hands to set the table with. She was everything but pleased to see the replacement food and shrieked at her husband and friends for their 'mammal-like eating habits'.

This ruckus caused the other two kitchen workers to look what was going on in the living room, and they also fumed when they saw that no one waited for dinner to be ready.

The turkey was still was a bit raw on the inside when they finally sat down for dinner. The potatoes were now dry, because they had been reheated twice and the sauce tasted and looked like water, but at least the turkey's filling was fantastic.

Harry remembered eating the biggest portion of his life, as did Blaise and his colleague. Not because they had been this excessively hungry or the food was so delicious, but because they were afraid of accidentally upsetting the women again. Apparently this wasn't the right thing to do either, because now they complained that the guys ate like pigs.

When dinner was finished, it was already well after eleven o'clock, and an entire three bottles of red wine were emptied. They sat together in the living room, Blaise and Daphne on the couch, wrapped up into each other, Astoria occupied the armchair together with Draco and Blaise's colleague.

Tom was his name, Harry remembered now.

He had sat cross legged on the carpeted floor. Wrapping paper was cluttered around the table and so dangerously close to the lit fireplace that it was a miracle nothing had happened, as they all gushed over the presents they received.

Harry knew immediately that the socks he received had been from Draco, though the card wasn't signed. Who else would have bought pink, purple and glittery white striped socks? He glanced towards his friend, who clearly found it rather difficult to stifle a giggle when he noticed his decided to humour him and put the socks on, but then felt something square, flat and stiff tickling his toes.

Inside one of the socks were two tickets for the Michael Jackson musical 'Thriller'. Harry embraced Draco in a hug that was likely to squash all of his inner organs at once. "Thank you, thank you, thank you soooo much," he shouted, with a goofy big grin on his face. He had wanted to see the show for ages! "You'll come with me, won't you?" he eyed his friend warily. The main reason why he hadn't seen it yet was because none of his friends was much of a Michael Jackson fan, nor had they any interest in musicals in usually didn't like them either, but this was the King Of Pop they were talking about!

Now it was Draco's turn to grin widely. "Of course I'll go with you, but only under one condition: you wear your red jacket, your hat, white socks, and THE glove." Harry rolled his eyes at the description of his latest Halloween outfit. "You really expect me to dress up as Michael Jackson for a musical?"

Draco giggled and replied: "why not?"

"Yeah man, you really should, and don't forget to take a picture and post it on Facebook" Blaise loudly exclaimed. The others laughed. Daphne offered to lend him her black eyeliner so he could complete the look 'down to the tee'.

He had given Draco a cookbook for cupcakes that night, just because he saw it in a shop window and spontaneously decided that it would suit him somehow. Draco squealed in delight, apparently that was something he had always wanted. Harry had not expected that. He had never seen Draco developing any dormitory skills. However he was pleased with his reaction to his present.

Daphne had given him a pair of gloves from Primark and a bar of chocolate. Nothing very exciting, but apparently she was broke and couldn't afford anything special. Everyone else had received something similar from her. Draco got a pink umbrella with colourful dots, Astoria a hair-band and Blaise and Tom a pair of socks each. The gloves had been the best gift out of them.

After the gift exchange, Harry released Lily from the confides of her case, and all sang a few Christmas songs together, before they shifted to other genres and ended the night with ABBA and the Bee Gee's

It was well after three o'clock in the morning when they finally said good-bye and promised to do the same thing next year all over - though with a less complicated menu.

Harry gazed towards his pink, purple and glittery white clad feet. He was wearing the socks Draco had given him that day. Not that he would ever admit it - even under pressure - but they were his favourites!


	5. Chapter 5

PerfectlyNormal Misfits

Only a few hours later, Harry received a text message from Daphne, an invitation for this year's Christmas dinner, at her and Blaise's. It seemed as if everyone was getting into the Christmas spirit today. Harry didn't know what to think of it. Was it even right to have a celebration only a couple of weeks after your friend died? Would it turn into a sob-feast?

He had no idea of what to expect.

"RVSP as soon as possible as we have to plan the shopping for the meal," it read on the end of the invitation. Should he go? Would it be better to skip? He decided to give Blaise a call to find out who else was coming before confirming or declining the invitation.

"Astoria and Tom will be there, they're dating now, I don't know if you knew, then there is me and Daphne obviously, Goyle will be there, but doesn't know yet if his girlfriend will be coming as well. My former flatmate might be there, you remember her don't you?" His friend rattled on the other end of the line. Harry held his breath for a moment. "The one with the green hair or the one with the lip piercing?" He asked in a dry voice, already dreading the answer. "Lavender" Blaise said: "but her hair is back to its normal colour now. They wouldn't allow the fancy hair colours at work," he chuckled.  
"Oh" Harry said. He remembered both of Blaise's former flatmates as punks, Lavender with her changing hair colours, Hermione with several piercings in her face, both of them usually dressed in black leather, corsets, ripped fishnet stockings and spiky belts and bracelets. "Goths," they would say, rolling their eyes, anytime Harry would refer to them as 'punks', which was apparently something else, but he didn't quite understand the difference. Furthermore winding your best friends' flatmates up was something he just couldn't let pass, back in those days, long before Draco had come along. It was weird to picture at least one of them now looking like a regular human being, at least between the hours of nine to five from Monday to Friday. "You haven't seen them in years" Blaise replied after Harry accidentally said his last thought out loud.  
Draco never got along with either of the girls, and especially the relationship between him and Lavender was bad. Harry never knew the reason. He never asked, thinking it would be better for his health to stay out of their quarrel. Anytime, the group did something together, it was either Lav tagging along or Draco and Harry, just to avoid their confrontation.  
Of course she would be invited now, that Draco was not here anymore. A could shiver ran down his back. He couldn't really blame Blaise for inviting his close friends though. "So..." Blaise prompted, stretching the word out with several ooo's: "are you coming? They're all looking forward to see you again. You've been hiding in your shell since..." he drifted off, not really knowing how to continue the sentence.  
Dead silence on the other end of the line. Harry stood, holding his mobile up to his ear, his lips pressed into a firm line and still as a statue.

"Hello? Hello? Are you still here?" he heard Blaise calling through the receiver. "Can you hear me?" Harry didn't reply. His left hand was balled into a fist. It trembled. He felt like there was a connection broken somewhere in his brain. No coherent words were formed up there and sent to his mouth to speak them.  
"Potty, HELLO-OO?" he heard Blaise shout. Then there was a sigh on the other end of the line. "Man, I'm sorry I said that. Really, I didn't mean to startle you." Another sigh."Dude, come on, talk to me. Please."  
"Is that about Lav?"

Harry still couldn't answer. Blaise's voice grew angrier: "Shit, man! Honestly, what did you expect me to do? We all liked Draco and we all miss him, but come on."  
Harry realised that he really had no clue what he expected Blaise to do. After all, all of them were much closer to Lav than they had been to Draco. Apart from Tom, who was new to the clique, they all had grown up together. Him, Blaise, Daphne, Lav and Hermione had been classmates in school and Astoria had been one year behind. They did their homework together, had spend their afternoons in each others respective houses and all that.  
But still, nobody said a word when the appearance of Harry's new friend caused a blow and they just worked their way around it. It was, after all, for Harry's sake that Lav hadn't been invited for last years Christmas dinner, though. Apart from Draco everyone would have wanted her around.

What would be the right thing to do?

He heard a mellow click in the distance. The sound of a receiver that had been put back onto the hook. Blaise seemed to have grown tired over his silence and decided to hang up on him.  
Harry didn't change his posture. He kept on standing in the same place, phone still pressed to his ear, the hand still formed into a fist, although the trembling had stopped. His mind far gone into a mess of decided to postpone the RVSP for now and clear his head first. It didn't sound like an easy thing to do. He suddenly felt captured in the few square feet of his flat and an urge to leave the place overcame him. He grabbed his leather jacket and left the building with no idea in his head were to go to. He just kept on walking straight ahead. One mile, two miles. He completely lost track of time, but knew that he must have walked for at least a couple of hours because the sun was already setting down. He looked at the houses he was passing by and the area somehow started to look familiar to him. He had ended up walking all the way to Camden Town, were a sudden idea hit his head. Harry started to quicken his pace, his eyes holding out for a specific tattoo parlour on Camden High Street.

He hoped, that she was still working here.

"The Cave" it read in bloody red, curly letters on top of the black painted building. Loud heavy metal music eloped from the speakers and the air was heavily scented with sandalwood and something else that smelled a little less legal. He had been at this place many times, got most of his tattoos done here. Yet, when he entered the shop he felt uncomfortable, just as he didn't belong here.  
Short after his entrance a young girl, probably just turned eighteen or so, clad in an outfit that barely covered her underwear (if she wore some in the first place) and displayed plenty of colourful tattoos down both her legs and arms, granted him a friendly smile and asked if she could help him. Harry cleared his throat and asked her if his friend was still working here, to were she happily nodded and gestured him to follow her into the back of the shop.  
A woman was sitting with her back towards him on a little swirling chair, cleaning her ink containers and pistol. He wouldn't have recognised her, not only because it had been quite a while since he'd seen her for the last time, but also because she had gained quite some weight and her massive body almost burst out of the too small tank top she was wearing.  
Every piece of flesh visible was covered in obscure black and white tattoos, even on the shaved side of her head - some of them were new, others Harry was quite familiar with. One of them was the massive owl that overhead most of her back, with outstretched wings that hugged her shoulders and upper arms. That one, he would have recognised anywhere. It was as individual as a fingerprint.

"Hey Hermione" a cheerful voice from beside him got the woman's attention. "There's a friend of yours" Ginny, the young receptionist said and pointed her chin towards Harry. Hermione turned around and squinted her eyes, looking as if she had as much of a hard time recognising him as he had with her. Her face turned briefly into a confused expression, before it lit up and she flashed a massive smile towards him. "Harry" she almost screamed and opened her arms for a hug. "I haven't seen you in ages, mate. How are you? Are you here for a new tat? I wanted to call you, see how you're holding up after I've heard..."  
She stopped her rambling for a moment and lowered her gaze. "But I wasn't sure if you would have wanted me to. It has been quite a while that we've hung out.  
He looked at her, but couldn't detect any accusation in her tone. She still smiled friendly at him. It didn't made him stop feeling guilty, however. But this was just they way it had been. Hermione stuck with Lav and he was siding with Draco, so they're lack of seeing each other just occurred, though Hermione and Harry had always got on well.

"Hey, I'm finished in about five minutes and I don't have any other appointments for the day, so you wanna go for a cup of coffee down to Starbucks?" Hermione ripped him out of his thoughts. "Would be ace to catch up again, you know"  
"Yeah, definitely" Harry agreed, wondering if asking her for advice in his Draco - Lav related Christmas dinner misery would be considered as 'catching up between friends' or if he was overstepping some invisible boundaries.

This and other thoughts on the same matter were criss-crossing his mind as he was waiting for Hermione at the counter. Ginny kept eyeing him up and though she was quite pretty with her long and slender legs and brightly red coloured hair that, she wore in a typical fifties style with a side parting and generous waves, it made him feel uneasy.  
It took Hermione a bit longer to finish up that she had expected, but he was relived when she emerged from the tattooing room about twenty minutes later.  
They walked down the street towards Starbucks, which was only about five minutes away from the shop and, as usual, crowded with tourists and funny looking individuals and ordered their Lattes.  
After getting their drinks they went onto the upper open air deck where they found a small table in the corner, and took as seat. They were the only people up there. Everyone else, so it seemed, decided to stay inside, on the ground floor, where the were save from the freezing weather.  
Harry got a bit nervous, not really knowing how the start the conversation, but Hermione seemed to be at ease. "It's so good to see you again, you know," she said again. "I was just talking to Lav the other day," she head-dived directly into the sure subject. "She's obviously blaming Draco for our lack of contact, but she's also upset with you for never coming out with us on your own, you know, without Draco. You've been constantly attached at the hip." She laughed her deep, throaty laugh, "You know, I never really got their quarrel. Lav never said a word and I didn't want to pry." She looked him directly into the eyes. "Can't help to think that this is part our fault, too." She took a sip of her drink and studied his face. "You look surprised," she stated a moment later.  
"Well" Harry cleared his throat. "That... situation... well..." He stuttered out, then shook his head. Hermione laughed again. "Same old Harry"  
Harry frowned: "its just..." He paused again. "It s hard to bring that topic up." He realised that he never really talked to someone after Draco was gone and now it felt awkward to try to open up to someone again, especially someone he hadn't seen in such a long time.

There was a small pause. "Sorry" Hermione finally mumbled. "I really didn't want to startle you."  
"I know," was Harry's short answer, his eyes focused on the paper cup right in front of him.  
"Well," Hermione shrugged and went quiet again, playing with a loose thread on her pink leather jacket. It looked like it was at least two sizes to small for her big frame, same as the top underneath. She turned her head to watch crowds of people walk up and down on Camden High Street. It was easy to decipher the tourists from the rest of them. They were the ones, dressed in jeans, Sneakers and mellow coloured Jackets and stood out like a sore thumb in between the colourful and very bizarrely dressed locals. "Look at them" Hermione pointed towards a group of middle aged tourists with cameras slung around their heads, that were dressed in blue-jeans, Jack Wolfskin coats and extremely comfortable looking shoes. "Anywhere else they would disappear in the crowd," she remarked. "But here..." she looked around until her eyes got locked on a group of girls with dreadlocks, heavy black make up and pierced faces. They didn't seem to mind the cold winter weather, judged by their short rockabilly dresses. "Here, they just look like a group of misfits" she ended her sentence.  
"Perfectly normal misfits" Harry replied with a far away voice and an unreadable expression on his face. This words were exactly what Draco had said when he had taken him to Camden Town for the very first time.  
Then he realised that Hermione not only had spoken the exactly same words, but they sat in exactly the same cafe on exactly the same table and had exactly the same drinks that Herman and Draco had had all the way back. The skin on his back started to prickle and he had to close his eyes and focus on his breathing to stop himself from hyperventilating. Everything around him all of a sudden stopped feeling real. It seemed, everything Draco-related had this effect on him lately.  
"Harry! Harry! Are you all right" Hermione's concerned voice shouted from somewhere, but he couldn't pinpoint the exact direction.  
All of a sudden he was jerked back to reality as a splash of ice cold water hit his frozen face. He blinked, then came back to his senses.  
"Gosh, Harry, you scared me here for a moment!" He heard Hermione, but couldn't read her expression. "I'm okay," he mumbled, shivering in his wet and cold coat.  
"Lets get inside and get you warmed up again," Hermione suggested, then grabbed him by the elbow to drag him downstairs. Harry followed like a lost puppy.

They ordered another round of hot drinks and settled for a cushy, warm space in the crowded confides of the restaurant. Hermione looked at him inquisitively: "okay, now spill the beans. What was going on a moment ago, mate?" Harry didn't reply, but just looked at his dirty fingernails. "Dunno" he dully stated. Hermione looked at him with a raised eyebrow, but didn't ask further questions. There was an uncomfortable silence that both of them didn't know how to break.  
"I got an invitation to Blaise and Daphne's Christmas dinner" he suddenly blurted out, getting too uncomfortable with the strange, silent atmosphere. "So did Lav," he added after his announcement didn't seem to affect her.  
Hermione nodded. "I see" was all she said in a bitter tone. Now it was Harry's turn to make a surprised face.  
"I'm on no talking terms with Daphne at the moment" Hermione offered, now looking very uncomfortable herself, "so I don't know what you're talking about"  
Harry sighted. This was the ideal opening line to finally getting everything off his chest. He told her about last year's dinner, when they started the tradition and how he didn't know what to do, now that Lav was invited. He looked at his confidant. Having said the words out loud, everything felt a bit clearer in his head. Now, he was embarrassed about making such a fuss over a petty party. "I'm a soppy idiot!" He groaned and offered Hermione a sad smile.  
Hermione smacked his shoulder. "Nah, it's all right, dude. I get your point. I guess I wouldn't feel any different myself." She smiled back. It was a warm and open smile, that looked a bit out of place on her face. "Draco came to the tattoo studio a couple of weeks ago" she said in a quiet voice. Harry was perplexed. "I didn't know about him getting a new tattoo done?"  
"Nah, he didn't come in to get tattoo..." she trailed off as if she had to think how to form the next sentence. "He wanted to learn how to tattoo," she laughed, but it sounded off, like there was more to the story that she didn't want to tell. "Couldn't hold the needle straight though. It was a complete disaster." Harry couldn't help but laugh at the mental picture. Draco trying to tattoo would have been a sight to behold. But why would he have chosen Hermione's studio of all places? There was definitely something else going on, but he didn't want to prey. He probably wasn't ready to know anyway.

"I don't think you should go to the dinner!" She changed the topic back to the original conversation. "I think it would be better for you to stay away from them for a while... Blaise and Lav, I mean. You're mourning your friend and at the same time they're celebrating a friendship reunion. I doubt that this is a healthy connection."  
"But Blaise was Draco's friend, too" Harry repeated his friends own words from earlier that day. Hermione rolled her eyes in a Draco-like fashion and raised an eyebrow. "They haven't been half as close as you and Draco were, plus for the loss of an acquaintance he's getting a really close friend back, that he had abandoned for your both sake on more occasions that he was actually comfortable with."  
"Ouch" Harry said, as her words were a stab in the back, though he wasn't really surprised to hear them.  
"You know," Hermione offered, having a bright smile on her face: "we could have our own Christmas dinner instead, a Christmas reunion dinner." Harry though for a moment, then nodded. This really did sound comforting. Maybe he could even invite Ron along. As far as he knew, his polish co-worker didn't have any family here, now that Fred and George went back to Poland. "Deal" he finally said and they high-five'd each other. Harry raised his cup of coffee for a toast: "to us" he said. "Two perfectly normal misfits"  
Hermione laughed, then changed her expression to a wicked grin. "Okay, but before making any further plans, you're due for a new tattoo!" She eyed Harry as if trying to find the perfect spot for a masterpiece, then raised her own cup again for another toast.

Harry was in a much better mood when he came back home that evening. After their coffee at Starbucks, they strolled around the Stables for a while, looking at vintage clothes and laughed at some of the crazier things they found there, before they went for a pub and a couple of drinks.  
He eyed his computer, that was still sitting in the corner next to his bed and was considering to start it up and check the views on his youtube page. He was surprised with himself that he hadn't even thought about it for the last eighty-four hours, but now he was eager to see if he managed to knock down the four-thousand mark.  
He gasped when he had a look at the actual number. It was far higher than he had expected or hoped for. He couldn't believe his eyes as he saw the big fat one in front of the FIVE digit number! That was beyond insane!

However, that was not the only thing that pulled the socks of his feet this evening. A couple of messages had been left in his inbox, praising his work and promising him a successful future in the music industry. The sender? Two music production companies, one of them located in London, that rejected him three, one and a half and half a year ago, when he tried to sell them his demo tape.

At this moment, Harry forgot how to close his mouth.

He drank a lot during his evening out with Hermione. Enough, that it was quite a difficult task to enter the bus home, enough, that it took him three attempts to finally get his key into his door lock and enough that undressing and changing into his pyjamas was a complete impossibility without falling over his own feet for a couple of times. But now, he felt like he hadn't have enough. He needed a glass of Whiskey quite desperately. And a cigarette.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: sorry, this is somewhat a lengthy one..**

Dining with Cannibals

Harry did not sleep well that night.

Skip that!

He didn't sleep at all. He was tossing and turning from one side to the other, dreading the phone calls that he would have to make tomorrow, until his bed sheets were thoroughly sweat through.

Skip that again!

The phone calls that he couldn't wait to be doing tomorrow.

He had his alarm set for seven o'clock on the dot, so that he was showered, shaved, and styled when he dialed the sacred ten digit number. Obviously, Harry knew that the person on the other end of the line could neither see nor smell him, but it was the most important phone call of his life, and it felt like the right thing to do.

Not that he had needed the alarm. He kept on glancing at the clock, trying to force himself to fall asleep. He drank milk and honey, counted sheep, listened to the endless babbling on the weather channel, but his nerves managed to resist everything. When it got close to four a.m. he couldn't wait for the time to pass by quicker.

At around six he got sick of lying in bed, waiting for time to have mercy on him, so he got up and had a cup of coffee and a cigarette. Then he got ready. Shaving was a trickier part than he anticipated. His razor was struggling with his inch long facial hair, and it took him almost half an hour to shave. Afterwards, his face felt like it was on fire. Harry glanced into his small bathroom mirror and groaned: "Oh, for the sake of Saint Mozart." The lower half of his face was red, and angry pimples stood proudly in greeting. He had managed to cut his skin twice, and bloody gashes graced his chin. One of them was so low that it almost looked like he tried to slice his throat. "Perfect" he mumbled sarcastically.

Harry scratched his head, as if it would help him think, and then applied some of the aloe-vera cream, that was hidden in a cupboard underneath the sink. The soothing cream gave instant relief and he wanted to sink to the ground and kiss the creator's feet forever.

Maybe it wasn't too bad after all that the shop assistant at Selfridges talked him into buying that cosmetic rubbish, though at the time he gritted his teeth, when he handed over two brand new twenty pound notes to the cashier, mentally cursed himself for not being able to say no. (Plus, the assistant looked cute and Harry didn't want to give the impression that he couldn't afford a forty pounds cream.)

At half past seven he was sitting at his breakfast table, an almost untouched bowl of cereal in front of him. He had only managed to eat two spoonfuls before his nervous stomach couldn't take any more food. Dressed in a formal looking white button down, his favourite dark blue blazer, and a brand new pair of dark denim jeans, he was ready for his call.

His face, however, was a completely different story. The cream had worked quite a miracle and the redness had calmed down a lot, but the gashes were clearly visible and the pimples seemed to have grown in numbers.

If he owned any make up, it would have been applied by now. That was how desperate he was.

Then he banged his head on his table. He was being stupid, and excessively dramatic, and he knew it.

By the time the clock reached eight, Harry had already smoked more than half a dozen cigarettes, drank three cups of black coffee, visited the toilet seven times, applied the facial cream again, restyled his hair two more times until the result looked exactly like a more greasy version of the bed-head he had sported just after getting up, and re-coloured his smart white oxford with brown coffee stains and had to change it into a less formal light blue button down from H&M.

With shaking hands he took his mobile phone and typed the number he had memorised.

He had to redial two more times, because his nervous, shaking fingers had difficulties pressing the correct buttons, but now he was holding the phone close to his ear, and praying for someone to finally pick up on the other line. "Poor customer service" he thought to himself. "When did picking up the phone within three rings get out of fashion".

Ring, ring ... ring, ring... ring, ring... Still the stupid dial tone. Harry hung up, then checked the number again. He tried again.

This time, he managed to get a reply, though it was only an automated voice telling him that the office opening hours were between nine and six. He brushed his hands through his hair. Another hour to wait. Wonderful.

He tried to keep himself occupied and switched on the television, in the hopes for some mindless entertainment. Big Brother, Wife Swap, something stupid to keep his overanxious brain occupied. He settled for some Bollywood version of a soap opera with English subtitles. No plot, just a lot of singing and dancing. Might do as well.

Five minutes later he changed the programme. Maybe he would have some more success with the home-shopping channel.

They advertised newly developed, highly technological, super-duper successful skin care products - especially for blemishes, rashes and sensitive skin as a very special fantastic offer for only...

Harry didn't want to know and shut the television off again. It wasn't fair that even that stupid small black box started to mock him now.

Eight twenty-one. Another forty minutes to go.

He started his computer and logged onto his youtube account. This time, he wasn't even in the slightest interested in the amount of viewers for his video. He went straight to his personal inbox, where he read the message from the music production company again.

Frances Feller was the name at the end of the message, so he assumed that this was the person he was going to talk to in just over half an hour. He wondered what kind of person she was.

Bubbly and overly excited? Professional and very down to business without any sense of humour?

He pictured a woman in her mid thirties, wearing a black pencil skirt, a white blouse, top three buttons open, dark rimmed glasses and her bleached hair in a tight bun...

Scratch that.

That was the woman in the porn from three nights ago, and he'd better not think of her during the conversation.

He closed his eyes, and tried to imagine a different version of Frances Feller: Mid-twenties, dreadlocks, no make up, piercing in the lower lip, wide and baggy clothes...

No!

That wouldn't work either. He didn't want to picture the people who might produce his music as a bunch of ragamuffins.

The third version of this Frances Feller person was wearing a vintage dress, brightly coloured high heeled shoes, and a funky haircut. He was pleased. That version would do.

At eight fifty-eight he entered the number into his phone again and waited for the exact moment the clock changed from eight-fifty-nine to nine a.m, then pressed the dial button.

Within only two rings a cheerful voice answered him: "Good Morning, you've reached Gryffindor Recordings, Minerva speaking. How may I direct your call?"

Harry had prepared himself for this phone call since yesterday when he got home. He memorised the words he wanted to say a million of times, and even practised them out loud in front of the mirror.

Despite remembering the entire speech, he couldn't get his words into the correct order, and replied with something that sounded like: "Yes, no, Morning..., erm a good one...,

I'm calling you ... because...

I'm calling you to speak to - because of my song,...

because you know...-

you know...

you, ...

well not you personally, but your Feller...

I mean your personal Feller...

No sorry, your colleague, erm... Ms Feller contacted me...

My name is Harry Potter on youtube ...

well, my name is not Harry Potter on youtube...

My youtube name is Hippogriff Dancer, like that song you know...

and your Feller, erm Ms Feller, left me a message...

on my youtube account ... to contact you. At your earliest convenience...

MY earliest convenience."

If it was physically possible, Harry would have kicked himself in the backside by now. He was stumbling over the words like the biggest moron on the planet. This was embarrassing! He was mortified of what would come out of his stupid mouth next.

The Operator had been professional, and kindly asked to hold the line while she was transferring him to Ms Feller's office.

With every second he was waiting for someone to pick up the call, he became more nervous.

Finally a deep and warm voice greeted him and introduced itself as Sybil, Ms. Fellers personal assistant. To say Harry was relieved, that it was only an assistant picking up, rather than Ms. Feller herself, was an understatement. He was not really in any state of mind to have a sensible conversation. Fortunately for him, Minerva, the operator, must have pre warned Sybil of his state of mind, because the conversation only consisted of the scheduling for a personal chat.

Harry hoped that he would be more relaxed by talking to someone in person.

He sighed, and vowed to take some valium before he would go to the interview.

The interview was scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. Harry was surprised that everything happened to fast, but didn't feel like complaining. After all, he had waited twenty-nine years for this chance.

He decided to take his white button down to the dry cleaner around the corner to make sure it was clean, and neatly pressed by the time he needed it. As soon as he left the small shop, he pulled his mobile from his pocket and called Ron to let him know that he won't be coming in for his late shift tonight. There was no way in hell that he would have the right frame of mind to work anytime before the interview, though he didn't give Ron that information. Harry decided it would be better to play the old "I have a temperature, headache and feel really really sick and I think I have the flu - card" and keep Gryffindor Recordings out of it. It didn't feel right to tell anyone yet. Harry was generally not a very superstitious person, but he felt that he would jinx this maybe - record deal if the mentioned anything before the whole thing was under the roof.

It was just after noon when he got back home again, where he had a small lunch of tuna, fresh out of the can and then started his computer in search for any other songs he still had on file.

Though Sybil hadn't mentioned anything, he thought it might be a good idea to take some more material with him to the interview.

He found three songs that he thought were quite good, and burned them to a CD and a USB stick and put it into his messenger bag. "It's never wrong to be well prepared" he heard Draco's voice in his head.

The rest of the day just didn't want to pass, and Harry often found himself looking at the clock, trying to persuade the hands to move faster, though to him it seems it had the opposite effect. He tried to keep himself busy with cleaning the flat, but gave up soon and fled the house.

He obviously couldn't call Ron to go out for a drink, but decided to check whether Hermione was available. They had promised to see each other more often anyway.

Later in the evening he found himself on the tube to Camden Town where he would meet her for a drink in a pub, pondering.

Wasn't it weird, that the one song that he did not write with a musical career in his head, but as a personal farewell to a dear friend, might just be the one to unlock the door his biggest dream? Draco had always insisted that the universe would work in weird ways, and now it just looks like he would get his point proven. Though it was too late for him to ever find out.

When Harry emerged the tube, his mood had sobered a lot. Fortunately, the pub wasn't a place he had visited with Draco, so it didn't hold any memories. He ordered his usual Stella and made himself comfortable on one of the stools at the counter.

It was open mic night, and some more or less talented singer entertained the crowd with a rather unique version of an old Johnny Cash song. Harry tried to decipher if the entrepreneur was male or female but didn't come to any conclusion. However, he realised that the small group of people next to him was having the same discussion with the same result. A grin played around his lips.

A slap on his back, a kiss on his cheek and a "what's up dude?", indicated Hermione's arrival. With her was the red haired girl from the tattoo parlour, who's name he already had forgotten. Gina, Greta... or something. She greeted him with what was probably supposed to be a seductive smile, but looked so out of place on her child like features that Harry burst into laughter. Hermione, who had watched the poor flirting attempt chimed right in, not realising that she annoyed the girl even further.

"I'm okay now" Harry replied to Hermione's greeting. He really felt less anxious since stepping into this place.

"Yeah, sorry 'bout her," Hermione made a face and gestured towards Ginny. "She insisted to come and meet you again." A wide grin spread across her face: "guess she fancies you"

"Just what I need!" Harry mumbled. Eighteen year olds were really not his type. Hermione laughed.

"You don't have jump into a serious relationship, if you get what I mean," she said, and wiggled her eyebrows. Harry starred at her with wide eyes. He often made that kind of joke with his male friends, but never ever before heard those words out of a woman's mouth. Wasn't that kind of comment supposed to be sexist and scoffed at?

Hermione laughed even harder. "Seriously dude, you have to loosen up. All that tension on your body can't be very healthy!" Then she turned her face to the bartender: "another JD on the rocks for my mate here!"

They found a dirty,but vacated table, crammed into the wall right next to the door. It was better then nothing.

Harry took a sip of his drink and looked at Hermione suspiciously. "Is there any particular reason why you want me to get laid?"

Hermione snorted, then laughed hard. "Relax, let your hair down, loosen up, chill, - however you want to phrase it. I just thought that some good and healthy sex might just be the way to get you there."

Harry had to admit that his friend had a point there. But he didn't really want to tell her the reason why he was so anxious yet. He doubted that he was in the right frame of mind for any physical activities though. His original idea of getting drunk probably wasn't the best either. After all, he didn't want to meet this Feller woman with a massive hangover.

Trying to play it off, he shrugged his shoulders, and looked at Hermione. "Any other suggestions?"

"Now that's my boy" Hermione laughed, and wrapped her arm around his shoulders. "We could get pissed enough to forget our own names, or stick with the good old green herbs, because they cause less of a hangover for the next day, and put our names down for the open mic and give them the worst impression of Sonny and Cher they have ever heard."

"I've got you, babe" Harry laughed and winked at Hermione. "But I challenge you for a sober performance," his smile turned devious. His intentions told him that she didn't have the guts.

"No, no, no, no, no!" Hermione shouted as on cue. "I'm not going up there unless I'm one hundred percent out of my mind and no longer responsible for my actions." She wildly gestured with her hands as if to prove her point.

"You're ridiculous," Harry mumbled.

He had anticipated her reaction, but was nevertheless disappointed.

Draco and him used to do open mic all the time, and though he was literally the worst singer on the planet, Draco was never afraid to scream his lungs out, no matter how sober he was!

"It's not me who will be suffering from hearing loss and headache, so why should I care?" He used to say before slaughtering yet another song into something completely unrecognisable.

Hermione wasn't even a bad singer, so he didn't get the fuss she was making about it.

"I know I'm not bad" she said, as if Harry had spoken his thoughts out loud. "But come on, look at me..."

Harry did just as she asked and took her appearance in. She was wearing another set of a least two numbers too small, black leather pants and a hot pink tube top, that was not only small for her frame, but also too short, so that her belly was sticking out underneath.

Harry realised that Hermione must have gained the weight very recently, as all of her outfits seemed to be quite too small for her, and their skimpy style was somewhat out of place for somebody that was clearly not very comfortable with their own body.

After coming to that conclusion, Harry blurted out the only question that appeared to be reasonable in his own head: "So why don't you just go to Primark and get some big sized stuff that would cover everything up, instead of having our body fat rolling out of every singe outfit?"

Damn, what happened to his brain filters nowadays?

He eyed Hermione very, very cautiously, prepared to run at any second. His breath became irregular and the pace of his heart quickened.

That had been a very wrong thing to say! He knew it.

He had spent enough time around woman to be aware that the topic of body weight was a very dangerous territory, that should be avoided at any cost. When the avoidance of the topic was not a possibility, one always had to speak in favour of the interlocutors current body frame. Also, one had always to deny that the woman in question had gained any weight at all. The words 'fat', 'beer belly', and 'big' had to be avoided at all cost, and must be replaced with 'curvy' or 'womanly.'

Harry tried to decipher the expression on Hermione's face.

At first, she looked shocked, as if she couldn't believe Harry really had said that out loud, but then she shook her head and looked at him with a bemused expression and finally burst out in a load roar of laughter.

"You know, I'm an idiot," she breathed out in between her giggles. "I honestly keep trying to convince myself that, as long as I can manage to to somehow squeeze into my clothes, the weight gain isn't too noticeable." She hold her belly and leaned back in her freshly acquired seat, trying to catch more air while she kept on laughing hard.

"I must look like a complete retard" she continued.

"Well," Harry said, not really knowing what to say and scratched the back of his head uncomfortably.

It was probably a good idea to say nothing for a while. At least until his brain filter was back in working order. Wordlessly he got up from his chair, adjusted... well, whatever needed adjusting ... insidehisboxers... and went to put his name down for the open mic. There were three more names in front of his, so there was plenty of time for him to get Hermione comfortable before it would be their turn. Then he went to the bar to order a bottle of champagne and went back to the table with a huge grin on his face. "All sorted!" He said proudly and uncorked the fizzy wine.

"Cheers to that," Hermione replied and raised her glass.

They had finished their drinks just in time before going on stage. Both felt a bit light-headed, but they were still sober enough to deliver a slur free version of an older song named 'big girls, you are beautiful' that none of them actually really liked but just fit their current mood. The audience cheered and screamed for more. Hermione and him budged and gave a smashing performance of Johnny Cash's 'Jackson'. People whistled and clapped. They really seemed to enjoy the show and asked for even another song.

Harry now wished he had brought his guitar along. He felt like singing and playing the entire night. However, because his guitar wasn't with him, he settled for an acoustic-free version of his own song.

It was already popular on youtube, even one of the most remarkable recording companies in this country was keen to get that piece of music, so it was probably worth being sung out load on an open mic night.

Harry grabbed the microphone with both hands, then changed his mind and put his right hand inside the pocket of his jeans instead, only to take it out five seconds later again and grab the mic with it again. He then brushed his left hand through his mop of hair, and kept hold of a strand hair that he wrapped around his forefinger.

Suddenly he felt very insecure. He drifted his eyes through the crowd but then let them settle on Hermione's face. Looking at someone familiar felt like a good thing.

He had briefly considered closing his eyes, but that would have been so cliché. He cleared his throat and then started the lyrics of 'Kicking cotton balls' without any musical background.

He wasn't at the pub anymore. He was somewhere. Floating. The lyrics transported him down memory lane. Trapped inside a happy bubble with Draco, both of them wearing wellington boots, running around a muddy field on a rainy day, joyful as little children about the few patches of brown, that were visible here and there on the lush green and moist ground.

He saw it as if he was watching a movie with Draco and him in the leading roles, whilst his song was the signature soundtrack.

Too soon, the song was finished and Harry catapulted back into the crowded pub.

There was no applause.

No cheering or whooping.

It was dead quiet. Harry thought that he could even hear everyone breathing. The bartenders stopped what they were doing, and starred at him like everyone else did.

Twenty-one,

Twenty-two,

Twenty-three,...

With every ticking second Harry felt a bit more uneasy.

What went wrong?

"That's the youtube guy!" Someone suddenly shouted.

If this was the cue for everyone else to come back to life, a loud cheer erupted from the crowd.

It was utterly crazy! Those people were even standing up from their chairs to applaud him.

"Man, that was an amazing performance."

"That's so much better live than on the internet!"

"Mate, you've got some serious talent there!"

People shouted at him from all directions.

Harry was completely baffled. Though he expected people to like this song, since it already was a great success on the internet, the positive vibe from the live audience exceeded all that Harry would have ever dreamed of.

It was too surreal.

He wasn't used to being celebrated.

He was used to being a loser.

Always had been.

With shaking legs, he stumbled his way down from the small make shift stage and without looking at anyone, made his way to the exit door. His entire being was in desperate need for some fresh air.

Well, actually that was a lie.

Harry was in desperate need for some tobacco flavoured air!

As soon as he left the building and walked a few steps down the road, to avoid the rather large range of people, smoking, drinking and laughing with one another, he lit up one of his Marlboros, closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Only a mere moment later, he felt a hand being placed on his shoulder, massaging the tension at the back of his neck. He could feel the female long fingernails scratching his skin through his shirt.

"That was incredible," a sweet voice whispered in his ear.

Harry turned around, looking directly into Ginny's face. He couldn't be sure whether she was trying to flirt with him or was just expressing her honest opinion, and it didn't matter to him. It didn't matter that eighteen-year-olds, or women, were not his thing. He wrapped his arms around her and pressed her body closer to his. Her arms were curling around his neck in an instant. She smelled of alcohol, cigarette smoke and something disgustingly sweet, which was probably her perfume, but it didn't matter.

He hardly smelled any better himself.

Their lips touched. Hers felt soft, if not a bit sticky from the recently reapplied lip-gloss, and full. They easily felt into sync with his.

Harry didn't know if he was a good kisser or not. Most of his experience happened with a rather intoxicated mind, such as now, but Ginny pressed her lips eagerly towards his and let her tongue slip into his mouth.

They deepened their kiss, not caring at all that they were still in front of a crowded pub and that both had left their coats inside, shivering in the cold with only thin clothes covering their sweaty bodies.

Harry didn't know how long they were kissing outside. He completely lost track of time and space. If prompted, he could reconcile a blurry memory of Ginny grabbing his hand and dragging him down a road and then another, but he had no clear idea how he had ended up in Ginny's bedroom some time later.

He had missed Draco so badly. It was his song, it brought back a lot of happy memories, and it pushed him to an euphoric state of mind when he was on on stage, being cheered on by the crowd, but as soon as he had left the pub all he wanted to do was pull Draco into a hug, and kiss him. He knew that he would never get the chance to do so, and that left a big whole of numbness somewhere inside him. Ginny's approach somehow filled that big gap for a moment.

The touches, the kisses, her small frame pressed against his, it made him feel alive and he wanted to hold onto that.

By the time they reached her house, he was ecstatic. No touches were enough. He needed more. More body contact. Flesh on flesh, no fabric barrier in between.

Harry remembered undressing her in one swift movement. It didn't matter if the zipper of her dress was broken, or her panties ripped apart, nor did it matter that his own shirt was now completely button less, or that he didn't remember where he left his left shoe. He might have lost it before even entering the house for all he cared. The need to be close to another warm body, the feeling of soft skin touching him, erupted everything else from his head.

Their lips had only been apart for the short moment when Ginny had opened the front door, they're bodies had been wrapped around each other the entire time. With her chest pressed against his side, he could feel the rhythm of hear heart beat changing, becoming more erratic with every passing second. Both of them couldn't get upstairs quickly enough.

Did they even make it to the bed?

Harry couldn't recall. He remembered unwrapping a condom with his shaking fingers and it took him a while to put it on. He remembered how Ginny had wrapped her legs around him in a tight grip, her long, acyl fingernails scratching his back up and down, up and down...

Painfully.

He wanted it.

The scratching, her tongue still exploring his mouth and her steady moving hips were driving him over the edge. He held tight onto her, moaning, his hands in her hair, pulling it, massaging her scalp and neck, bringing her closer.

His thrusts became harder and faster, his breath was quickening. The urge to touch her everywhere overcame him. He moved his hands from her face down to her pierced breasts, massaged them, squeezed them in a way that would probably leave bruised for the next day. He moved his hands further down, lifting her up just a bit, rubbing her firm bottom, bringer her closer, much closer.

He felt short of exploding.

Harry sighed when he tried to collect his clothes the next morning. Sobered up, he realised that it had been a mistake. With an uncomfortable, and sick feeling in his stomach he silently closed the door of Ginny's bedroom, and sneaked down the stairs. The red haired woman was already forgotten, and his thoughts span around in circles. Pictures of Draco, laughing, them fighting over something really silly, goofing around. Occupied most of his brain.

Then he remembered the date.

Harry scratched his head. It had been exactly two years ago. Harry was on an eight pound an hour pay at the warehouse, and Draco, who had recently quit his position because of an argument with Mr Snae, was working in one of the fancy Park Lane hotels for an even smaller salary. It was stupid of them to rent a flat directly in the heart of London, as this was were the rents were most expensive, but Draco wanted to live in a 'cool' area.

The box they lived in hardly fitted the queen sized bed and the few kitchen appliances that were adjusted to the wall opposite of the only window, which was a rather small box itself. Next to that, was the probably tiniest bathroom in the word, complete with a hardly A3 sized shower, a very small and very beaten up sink right next to it and a small toilet stall with a wobbly seat. The only thing big in that so called flat was the mould stain on the bathroom ceiling and the price. One thousand-and-fifty pounds a month plus one-hundred-fifty pounds council tax. Split by two, the amount just left them enough money to pay their phone bills, get food and top up their oyster cards and go out for drinks once in a while.

Due to their financial situation, their evenings spent at home, with a freshly cooked meal in front of the television increased, so that sometimes they couldn't even remember the date when they had gone out the last time.

Contrary to anyone's believes, their living situation worked quite well. Sure, there was one argument or the other, mostly about left open toothpaste and empty milk cartons in the fridge - everyday stuff, but generally the got along with each other quite well - and - as least in Harry's case, their feelings for another increased.

The day in question was a Wednesday. Draco had to work a late shift and would be gone until nine p.m. and Harry had the day off.

It was close to the end of the month, leaving both of them broke, so Harry had decided to cook a romantic meal for his hopefully soon-to-be boyfriend.

He was even counting the chopper coins in his wallet if it might me enough for a small bottle of white wine.

Harry had never really cooked before, and settled for some pasta with ready made sauce, that just needed some heating up and a fresh salad.

This was one of their standard dinners, but he tried to create a romantic atmosphere with dimmed lights, matching cutlery and some soft music in the background. He had gotten a bottle of wine, which was placed onto their foldaway kitchen table.

By approximately nine thirty every thing was set, and Harry was waiting for Draco to burst through the door at any second, but it seemed as if he had to stay a bit longer than expected.

At ten, there was still no sign from him.

The dinner got cold by now, and the bottle of wine was back in the fridge. Harry was pacing up and down the small room, trying to ring Draco's mobile without success.

It was almost eleven p.m. and he had expected him one and a half hours ago.

Concerned, he tried ringing the hotel he worked, where, after holding the line and listening to some monotone tune for almost five minutes, he was informed that Draco had indeed left on time.

"He probably went for a couple of drinks with a few colleagues. The lot of us often meet up at one of the pubs around Shepherd's Marked after work," the annoyed sounding operator informed him after his second call.

Harry took his phone and smashed it against the wall in his anger, where it left a dent. Why didn't he clarify whether Draco would be coming home one time or not? He was such an idiot!

He slurred to the kitchen area, not being bothered enough to lift his feet, and ate the cold noodles all by himself.

After he had done the dishes, he put away the foldable kitchen table and chairs, turned the lights off and went to bed.

He could not keep himself from checking the time ever so often, and watched the numbers on the digital clock changing from one to two, from two to three, and then to four.

Just before it turned five a.m. the door to their flat opened and a small figure stepped inside, almost stumbling over his own feet. For some reasons the person must have found that hilarious as he started to giggle uncontrollably.

Unsteady as he was, Draco leaned against the door frame to undo his shoes, the entire time laughing about one thing or another.

After he managed to take the shoes off, he proceeded to do the same with the overly large, dark coat he was wearing, that Harry couldn't remember having seen before.

Draco's hair was a complete mess, and he. was. not. wearing. his. trousers. Or his pants.

Harry blinked. Once, then twice. "Draco?" Was all he was able to stammer out, but he didn't receive a response.

Draco moved towards the bed, then took his top of and went to lie down next to Harry. Harry was surprised that he didn't smell any alcohol. Draco's behaviour clearly indicated that he was completely wasted. If there was no alcohol involved, what the heck had Draco taken?

Harry was concerned. Draco was never one for drugs. Sure, they had smoked some weed once in a while, but Draco had never behaved like tonight.

Maybe he didn't take anything on purpose, but had gone to a club where someone slipped something into his drink? What if...?

Harry could get his mind to focus in that direction, though Draco's state of undress was an indicator that he might have hit the nail on the head.

Harry felt disgusted! He wanted to call the police, the ambulance, Scotland Yard and the CIA at once.

Draco started to giggle, as if he had read his thoughts and found them incredibly funny. 'Would someone who had just been humiliated laugh afterwards?' Harry tried to think 'no' but knew that the erratic behaviour didn't speak for anything.

"Draco, how was your evening?" He tried to ask, wanting to know if he remembered what had happened.

Draco's giggles grew louder.

Then he was crying.

Laughing again.

Harry couldn't make any sense out of it, but got more and more scared by the second. He tried talking to him again. "Who where you with?" He could perhaps ring someone who might be able to fill him in. Draco surely had the numbers of his colleagues saved in his phone.

"Victor," came the muffled reply. Draco was crying again.

Jealousy started to rise in Harry's chest along with anger: who was this Victor and what had he done?

"You never mentioned a Victor before... is he new? what department does he work in?" He tried to pry.

Draco laughed hysterically, as if Harry told the greatest joke on the planet. "Victor... working in ... the hotel?" he cried.

"He is a guest!" His voice became quiet: "I'm not supposed to say anything," a muffled giggle:"because this is top secret!" he stifled a giggle again.

Harry's heart started to beat through his chest. This top secret stuff rang his alarm bells! He took another deep breath, pulled at a few stands of his hair and then asked in his calmest voice: "who is Victor and what did you guys do?"

"Shhhht!" Draco chided him. "You need to be very quiet, because no one is allowed to know!"

Harry took yet another breath and repeated his question. With Saint Mozart's help, he would get an answer!

"Well," Draco said: "Victor is, of course Victor Krum...

the football dude Victor Krum...

you like football, Harry. You should know who Victor is. And what we did, was..." he giggled again, then made another attempt at speaking: "we did what was did..." he burst out laughing again.

Or was it crying? It was too ecstatic for Harry to tell.

He padded Draco's back hopelessly while pictures of the salt and pepper haired, middle aged manager of a top premier league football team appeared in his head. Victor Krum, 43, football manager. Married, with two children.

His fingers were shaking violently, his breath was short and erratic. Harry closed his eyes and opened them again. His voice sounded dead when he spoke: "What did you to with football dude Victor Krum, that got you home at five in the morning, and left you with only half of your clothes?"

A lot more giggles.

"We had dinner with some cannibals," Draco said, as if the stament made any sense.

Harry was suffocating. An invisible hand was closed around his throat in an iron grip. He needed air. Too many open questions were still circulating in his head. Did Victor drug him? Did Draco take the drugs knowingly? He had obviously taken something! Did they have sex? Did Draco want it? Or had this guy... ?

The giggles to his right had finally stopped, and were replaced by a snoring sound. Draco was rolled into a foetus position, his back turned to him and fast asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: Another rather long one**

Overly Talented Screw-Up

Harry lit up a cigarette while he was trying to find the Camden Town tube station from the unknown street he spent the night in. He couldn't be very far off, but Harry was blessed with no sense of direction at all. His mind was still circling around Draco and he didn't pay too close attention to his surroundings.

He had buried the idea of a relationship that night. There was no specific reason why, because his feelings had never changed. There had just never been a right moment again.

And no more right moments were about to come. He blinked a couple of times to get rid of the traitorous teardrops, that were forming in his eyes, but there were to many. They kept rolling down his cheeks, to the tip of his nose and from his chin onto his coat. He couldn't bring himself to bother wipeing them away.

Dragging one foot in front of the other, subconsciously and probably in many circles, he finally reached the station.

Numbly, he sacked down on the first available seat on the Northern line train, with everything else around him tuned out.

He only half paid attention to the stops, so that he wouldn't miss the one he had to get off. Normally he had the number of stops in his head, but today he felt like a tourist, travelling for the very first time.

He didn't recognise any of the stops he was passing, their names only a mere blur of a chain of letters with no point and reason behind.

The only other passenger had left, and Harry was all by himself in the carriage, which was weird, because no one is ever alone in a carriage on the London tube. That just didn't happen and it increased his feeling being totally out of place and space.

His mind drifted back to the time two years ago.

The television screen provided him with the missing puzzle pieces the next morning. It was headline news.

Draco had rolled to his stomach during the night and was still fast asleep. He probably would be for the next couple of hours, considering whatever kind of drugs he took last night. Trying not to wake him up with some unnecessary noise, Harry turned the volume on the television low enough that Draco couldn't hear it, and then sat cross-legged in front of the old fashioned box to watch the news while eating his breakfast cereal.

The news had been their usual on this Thursday morning: International politic affairs, economy still low, Manchester United won last night's football game and Madonna had a new boy toy.

Suddenly there was a picture of Draco filling the screen.

The scene seemed to have taken place in an ice skating ring. A crowded one. But it wasn't ice skating, what most of the people had in mind that moment. Their expressions reached from shock to utter disbelief as they witnessed a high profile football manger spanking a boy, probably half his age, in the middle of the ring, with his belt, both seemingly enjoying the attention.

Harry's eyes jumped from the TV to Draco and then back, trying to un-see what he was seeing.

This was outrageous! Unbelievable. Disgusting! How in the world...

Why would Draco do such a thing?

He wasn't that kind of person! That was very uncharacteristic. Draco was a sweet, down to earth dude. A bit on the crazy side, ...

okay, a bit more on the crazy side...

or maybe very crazy...

very crazy and attention craving...

crazy enough to...

Harry gulped. Loudly. From this point of view, a very naughty encounter with a famous person on an ice skating ring would totally be Draco's thing.

Harry had to shake his head to get the mental picture back out of his head. He hadn't tried to think of this moment for the last twenty three months, but there it was, the moment in history that crushed Harry Potter's heart to pieces.

This was the first day, they had the paparazzi standing in front of their house and the beginning of celebrity parties, covers on the gossip tabloids, and a one-hundred-thousand pound pay check for Draco, courtesy of celebrity Big Brother.

Harry often wondered whether this was a calculated career move, or a spur of the moment thing, but never again was the name Victor Krum mentioned, and Harry never asked.

The underground kept on moving, and Harry dared to look at the next station's name, wondering how many stations he was already past the one he had to get off.

Burnt Oak got announced. He was almost all the way up to Edgware! He wasn't only a few stations down, he also managed to take the wrong train!

Whether it was coincidence or karma, Harry didn't know, but he realised with a shudder that he ended up being quite close to his parent's house. He hadn't seen them in ages.

After their argument about universities, appropriate future careers, and their disappointment at their son working in a warehouse, Harry had slapped the door close behind him, and never went back. His mother tried to call a few times, but Harry was to thick-headed to pick up his phone.

The last time he had seen them was the week after he had met Draco, and he had been his replacement family ever since.

Now that he was gone, maybe it was time to make amendments?

Harry was no religious person per se, but he believed that something - or someone had led him here. In his eyes, there was no other explanation as how a natural born Londoner got lost on the underground. In Camden Town nevertheless!

Harry got off the tube, and switched platform sides. His parents lived in Hendon, which was only two stops down from were he was.

By the time he arrived, his heart started to ponder. They hadn't seen each other for such a long time. What would it be like to meet them again?

Would they be angry?

Were they still disappointed? Harry was still only a lowly warehouse worker. He knew that he wouldn't impress his parents with his interview appointment this afternoon. They denied him to study music in the first place. This was not a career choice in their mind. It was the 'Highway to Hell'.

Harry stopped for a moment.

Perhaps they had already written him out of their lives, mourned for a lost son, and would greet them with the biggest hostility they could muster.

Or, the almost three years they hadn't seen each other gave his parents time to think of what they've done wrong and were eager about a reunion.

He took a deep breath. There was only one way to find out.

The way to his parent's house still felt familiar. This three years of abstinence were only a small number against the twenty-six years that he used to live here, walking this route almost every day of his life.

Some houses were painted in a new colour, and unfamiliar cars were parked in front of them.

Old Misses Rosenthal seemed to have completely redone the small yard in front of her house. He saw a group of small children emerging the place and running towards the playground. He spotted the small bikes parked at the side of the building and the colourful curtains on the first floor. Misses Rosenthal didn't seem to live there any longer at all.

For some reasons Harry was saddened by that. He was never close to Misses Rosenthal . Quite the opposite actually. She was the old, dragon-like hag, who constantly told him and Blaise off for playing too loud, talking too rude, and dressing like vagabonds. He didn't like her at all, but she was just a constant part of this side of the world. Her being gone reminded Harry of how much changed over this mere three years, and how certainly unknown the outcome of his visit was.

His fingers were sweaty when he rang the doorbell. A familiar loud and shrill tone screamed from the inside of the house.

The door had changed from a faded red colour to navy blue, but apart from that, nothing seemed to have changed over the years. From the outside, he could see the flowery beige curtains that had decorated the living room window for almost a century.

There was a shuffle inside and small, springy steps moved closer to the door. It wasn't hard to recognise his mothers bouncy walk.

The door opened a few inches with the security lock still hooked in its chain. A dark, curly head, similar to his own came into view when his mother peaked out from behind the door. Harry nervously smiled at his mother, but before he could stutter out a 'hello' the door closed into his face with a loud thud.

Harry gasped.

This was exactly the reaction he had been most afraid most afraid of.

Then he heard the security lock getting removed and the chain clinked with a loud banging noise onto the wooden door. The door was thrown open, and before Harry could register anything else, his mother had eloped him into a huge bear hug and was sobbing on his shoulder.

Awkwardly he patted her back, not really knowing what to say.

"Harry," he heard his mothers voice muffled against his coat. "It's you! It's really you!"

She held him at arm's length to get a proper look at her son. Shaking her head as if she still couldn't believe her eyes. "It's really you," she repeated again in a soft and shaky voice, before she crabbed him by the arm and dragged him into the house.

The soft, light blue carpet in the entrance hall had been replaced by a dark wood, and the flowery blue and white wallpaper changed to creme painted walls, but everything else was still the same. There were the same three black and white photographs of the Brooklyn Bridge, the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty, that his dad took on a holiday to the States, decorating the wall next to the stairs towards the upper level of the house. And even the small cherry wood dresser next to the hat stand was exactly the same. The small superman sign, that Harry craved in as a young boy, was still shining brightly against the otherwise smooth surface.

A fresh, flowery smell came from the living room to his right, where his mother kept her orchids.

Harry had to steady himself while he removed his shoes, before he went further into the house, he had no longer control over his shaking and wobbly knees.

His mother stood quietly next to him, tears rolling freely down her face. She threw a small smile at him before she proceeded to the kitchen at the back of the house.

Harry followed short on her heels and sat down on the exact kitchen chair, he used to occupy as a child during their family breakfasts.

His mother put a cup of steaming hot tea in front of him, and then took a seat to his right, holding a cup of her own. She filled almost half of her cup with full fat milk, just the way she had always drunk her tea, then offered the small porcelain pincher to her son.

Harry thanked her quickly and added a few drops of milk to his own tea and started stirring it for a much longer time then necessary.

There was an awkward silence in the room, as both of them didn't really know what to say. Harry was tapping his food to a made up melody and he could faintly hear his mother doing the same. He inherited the trait from her, something that always drew his father mad.

"I'm so sorry" they blurted out at the same time and then hugged again. This time, both of them had tears in their eyes.

Harry didn't want to let his mother go. Not only out of sentimentality, but because he knew that as soon as he withdrew his arms, the awkward silence would be back again.

He kept on pressing her tighter towards him, and mumbled: "I missed you" somewhere into the direction of her forehead.

"I missed you, too," her voice thick with tears as she pressed her face against his shoulder.

Finally his mother let go and went back to her cup of tea. She took another sip, bidding her time, and Harry did the same.

His cup was empty soon, but he kept on putting it to his lips, as if taking sips. He didn't know how to occupy his hands otherwise.

"Are you okay?" His mother's voice was raw. Harry looked at her, surprised. "Yes, I'm fine," he said, pulling at some of his strands of hair. His mother didn't stop him this time. She always used to. "You will be bald years before your own dad," she usually complained, as she put his hands away.

Now, she just looked at him in interest. Like something in a museum that is not allowed to be touched.

"Are you still working at the warehouse?" She asked then.

Harry now brushed both hands through his hair. "Yes," he said in a neutral tone. He felt a chilliness creeping through him. After all, his career, or lack thereof, had been the main reason for the rift.

His mother just nodded. "Is that the reason you came by today? Are you finally considering university? getting a degree in something and getting a proper job?"

Harry's voice grew icy when he replied. "No, I just wanted to see you. this isn't about my career."

"Your career" his mother repeated, a faraway look in her eyes. She must remember the fights and arguments they had, before Harry had packed a suitcase full of his belongings, and left his parents house in the middle of the night, never to come back again.

"Your father and I..." His mother started and looked at him, pleading: "always just wanted what's best for you. I know you didn't feel that way, thick headed and young as you were. But I was always hoping, that when you got older, you would understand were we where coming from, and came back home." Fresh tears rolled down her eyes and her voice was breaking. "And here you are." She gulped. "I always prayed for that day to come"

Harry felt as if he was being ripped apart in the middle. One side of him wanted to comfort his mother, but the other wanted to shout at her. He would always blame them for their wrong decision of not letting him go to Hogwarts!

He tried to be diplomatic, as difficult as it was: "I'm trying to understand your side, but I haven't changed since I'm gone."

Contemplating whether he should tell his mother about the interview he had in the afternoon, just to prove his point that he had it in him to make a career, he decided against it. His mother wouldn't budge any more than he did. If he wanted a fresh start with her, it was best to avoid this topic.

"I don't want to talk about things that will only end in an argument." He said instead.

His mother sighted, but nodded. She stood up to get another cup of tea. "Where have you been living?" She asked.

"Here and there," Harry replied. "I was moving a lot around."

It was the true, but Harry realised how vague his answer sounded.

Too closed off.

An answer you would give to someone you don't want to share a part of your live with. A stranger.

But this was what his mother was to him. She was a stranger. He made the first step to reconcile with her, but there was no way of erasing their gap in five minutes. Both of them had to make an effort now, to make it work again. Both of them had to want it.

Harry just now realised, that this project was much bigger than he had first anticipated.

His mother nodded. "I understand," she said.

He believed her.

Her seat almost fell backwards, when she jumped up, and hurried to one of the kitchen cupboards. She took some potatoes and onions and put them onto the counter. Fishing for a knife, she asked: "Latkes used to be your favourite. Are they still?"

Harry slowly nodded and grabbed a cutting board and knife for himself. There was silence while they prepared the food, but both seemingly grew more comfortable.

His mother was frying the small, pancake like latkes, and Harry set the table, and retrieved a glass of apple sauce from the pantry.

It started to felt a bit like the good old times, like home.

Later, Harry left the house with mixed feelings. It felt good to reconnect with his mother again. Willingness to make amendments on both sides, it would be a long way and Harry doubted that they'll ever be as close as they used to be. Fragile as the new relationship was, only time could tell if it was worth the effort at all. Though he truly hoped it was.

The neatly pressed shirt was decorating his bed, ready to be put on. Harry had just reached the dry cleaners a few moments before their closing time, and picked up what the needed to wear for his upcoming interview.

The rash had disappeared from his face, but he decided against shaving his freshly grown stubble. Just to be on the safe side. He managed to get his thick mane into something that almost resembled a proper hairstyle, which was good enough for him. He just finished polishing his shoes and then was ready to go.

Harry had opted against taking the underground and ordered himself a taxi instead. It was a lot of money for him, but it was worth the effort. His underground experience from the morning was still freaking him out a bit, though he hardly admitted that. He kept on telling himself that he wanted to arrive in style.

Taking his messenger bag, Harry was just about to leave his flat, when he turned around to take his guitar with him as well. Better be prepared.

It was already late in the afternoon, but the streets were less crowded than expected. The cab reached its destination in no time.

He took a proper look around his surroundings and then lit up a cigarette, his decision of not smoking before the interview already overboard. Tourists and Locals where buzzing around him, rushing towards bars and restaurants or taking snapshot after snapshot in the area of Leicester Square. Booths, that sold tickets to various West End shows at half price were plastering the street. The m&m shop was luring the younger generation in with its bright colours, the entrance as crowded as Harry remembered it from the times, when Draco got glassy eyes in front of the store.

This time, Harry paid no mind to the sweet shop. The W Hotel, its tall logo branded into the wall in a neon blue light, took his breath away.

He had never been inside this posh hotel before, but knew from Draco that it was quite trendy, and apparently the home of one or another rock star when they travelled to London. Draco asked him a couple of times to come along to the resident night club, but being the sidekick of some socialite didn't make him guest list material. This was fine by him. Harry never considered himself to be a fancy club person.

With a funny feeling in his stomach, Harry stepped into the lobby of the five star hotel. A member of staff, which he assumed was the concierge greeted him and showed him to the the restaurant, where he would meet Frances Feller. Harry took a deep breath. This was it.

Harry took a seat at a table next to a window, overlooking the busy street below. Miss Feller hadn't arrived yet, and Harry wondered if it would be impolite to order a drink already.

He decided to wait, but put a piece of chewing gum into his mouth to get rid of his cigarette breath. The clock on his mobile phone told him it was four-twenty-nine p.m. Frances Feller would turn up any moment, he reckoned.

The restaurant was very busy and Harry often turned his head to see if someone was approaching his table. This Feller person was already five minutes late. Or was she? They agreed on this time and place, didn't they?

Harry started to question his own sanity.

Waiters buzzed around the tables, serving the many chatty guests, and glanced towards the table in the corner, where Harry was sitting, still not having placed an order yet, and looking exactly like that kind of guy who had just been stood up for a date. Pity was written over their faces.

Apart from the fact, that this wasn't a date, it was exactly how Harry felt. He finally ordered himself a small water and checked his watch again. He was already waiting for twenty minutes. Harry started to nervously tab his fingers and continued to look at the people that entered the restaurant. Nobody was approaching him.

At quarter to six, Harry had enough.

He waved the closest waitress over, and ordered himself a glass of whiskey. On the rocks. Straight. He drank it in one big gulp, than ordered another one.

And another one.

By the time, Harry was thoroughly drunk, somebody pulled at the seat across from him.

"Mr. Potter?" A female voice asked. Harry looked up and recognised the blurry outline of a thin and tall woman with short red hair, a black business suit and large, horn-rimmed glasses.

"That's me," he replied, trying his best to keep the slur out of his voice. He clumsily stood up to shake the woman's hand.

"Frances Feller," she said in an important voice, and sat down.

Harry sat down as well, though the procedure took him a little bit longer as his chair didn't quite oblige.

Miss Feller looked at the empty whiskey glass on the table disapprovingly, but didn't say a word. Harry was glad that the waitress was very quick to clear the table, because the five glasses, that should be lined up next to this one, probably wouldn't go down very well.

Miss Feller pulled a manila folder out of her oversized handbag as well as an expensive looking silver pen, that came in a small black leather case with designer logo. Apparently not being one for small talk, she opened the folder, pulled out a piece of thick looking paper with glossy print that looked too much of a questionnaire as Harry was comfortable with. "Your full name is Harry Potter?" She asked him, ready to write the information down.

"Harry Heronymous Potter" he replied in a very low voice, being utterly embarrassed by his stupid middle name, which was very hard to pronounce in his drunk state. What made it even worse, Miss Feller asked him to spell it out for her.

Fortunately, having gone through this so often in his life, his brain didn't have any trouble remembering the correct spelling. Even in his drunk state.

"Date of birth?" Miss Feller asked next, without looking up from her piece of paper. "31 July 1980," Harry replied, and grew more uncomfortable with ever passing minute. Not only because the alcohol he had consumed fogged his brain, but also because this sterile jolting down details wasn't at all how he had the interview expected.

At the end of her questionnaire, Miss Feller fumbled another document out of her folder. "Mr Potter," she said in her clipped voice: "can you confirm that you are the composer of the song 'kicking cotton balls' as well as the legal owner of all copyrights?"

"Erm... yes?" Harry replied, his voice unsure. He had written the song, the lyrics, it was his performance on the youtube video, so that automatically made him the owner of the song, didn't it?

Harry never really gave a thought about copyrights before and felt a bit lost.

Miss Feller raised her eyebrow at his answer. "Are you, or are you not?"

Harry hesitated for a moment. "I composed the melody, wrote the lyrics, and have the original music sheet in my bag here. That does make me the owner and copywriter, doesn't it?"

Miss Feller noted something on the document, a wicked gleam in her eyes. Finally, a small smile playing around her lips. "Yes, Mr. Potter. That does make you the ... 'owner and copywriter' of the song, though I rather use the actual phrase 'owner of copyrights' on the contract agreement, if you don't mind."

An alarm bell went of in Harry's head. He was just about to sign a contract with one of the biggest music productions in London, in a drunk state! Wouldn't it be important to keep his sharp wit, to make sure that he understood the fine print of what he was agreeing to here?

Perhaps it was an evil scheme of the big bad music company to keep him waiting for this interview until he was thoroughly drunk, so that he would sign about anything? Maybe Miss Feller was even here the entire time, watching him order one whiskey after the other until she decided that he had reached the perfect level of alcohol in his blood?

"I want to show the contract to my lawyer before I sign anything," He blurted.

Harry never had spoken to a lawyer, nor had he any idea where to find a good one. Could he just walk into any solicitors office and ask them to look over the contract for him? He hoped so, as well as he hoped Miss Feller wouldn't catch his bluff.

Miss Feller, who didn't seem fazed by his request nodded slightly. "Of course, Mr. Potter. We're not going over an actual contract at the moment. This meeting is just to establish, that you indeed own the song in question, and wish to publish it. With your signature on the agreement you confirm this information. I will then take the agreement along with your music file to my boss, and we'll decide from there if we want to work with you or not. We will then contact you with our decision, which is when we will present you with an actual contract."

Harry was relieved, though he only understood half of what she was saying. Damn alcohol.

"So you want me to give you my original composition?" Harry clarified: "to show it to your boss?" He was uncomfortable about handing this valued item over. Perhaps the hotel could make a photocopy for him?

He heard Miss Feller really laugh for the first time. "Of course not, Mr. Potter. A copy is fine. Perhaps a copy of the recording as well, if you can. Email that to me, I'll give you my card with my contact details in a moment,"

That sounded reasonable. Harry could do that.

He quickly nodded in agreement, though in his drunken state it looked more like he was bouncing his head to a heavy metal song.

Miss Feller went through a few more questions, and asked him about samples of any other songs that he had written. Harry agreed to add another five or so songs to the email.

Then Miss Feller stood up and shook his hand, but not before handing him a fancy looking card with the Gryffindor logo boldly engraved into the shiny, black background. In small letters it read Miss Feller's name, direct line and email address as well as her mobile number and the company's web address and Facebook page. Harry took it and neatly put it into his wallet, not wanting to crease it.

After Miss Feller left, he slumped back into his seat, feeling completely drained, and in desperate need for another drink.

Harry did no longer remember for how long he sat there, or how many drinks he had. It had been such a surreal day and he still had to digest most of it.

What made it worse, was the three digit number, neatly printed onto the bill the waitress just put on his table. He should have stopped drinking ages ago. But what would happen next? In which direction would his life go when he left the Hotel restaurant?

Harry wasn't ready to fully admit it to himself, but the tiny little voice inside his head knew that he was afraid to find out. He kept on telling himself that the next drink would finally be the last one, but that promise was as empty as the glass in front of him.

This little voice did him one favour, and in a brief moment of consciousness, he gave Hermione's phone number to the waitress and asked her to call his friend for him. That was just before he ordered another drink and an updated bill.

That drink was empty now, and the number on the small piece of paper shouted to stop drinking - and 'fuck it all and have another one' at the same time. Harry wasn't sure which advice he was supposed to follow.

He decided not to care, and ordered yet another drink.

"Potty-poop, Potty-poop, what are you like?" A singsong voice chirped, and interrupted his current state of numbness. Harry lifted his heavy head to find out who was talking to him, but no one was anywhere close. Deciding, that this had only been his imagination, he dropped his head back onto the table, and enjoyed the spinning sensation he was feeling.

Suddenly he heard a high pitched laughter. It was the same voice that talked to him a moment ago, Harry was sure.

"You know, I've always wondered whether you particularly enjoy making a fool out of yourself in public!" The voice now scolded. This time Harry recognised its owner.

"You're one to talk" he said with a heavy tongue. "Public emb.. emb... brasssement... is prrrrractically your middle name!"

When did speaking ever became that difficult, Harry wondered.

The voice complained: "I never embarrassed myself more than I embarrassed everyone else involved!" Then, in a smug tone: "You however, seem to be the comic relief in your own life story!"

The laughter got harsh: "You're an overly talented screw-up Harry. Always have been, and always will. Just try to lift your severely pissed mug for a moment, and open that two little, red eyes of yours. Lovely little Miss Frances, with the Annie Lennox remembrance hairstyle, is two seats down, watching you the entire time, and shaking her head at the major mess up that you are, wondering why she wasted her time to talk to the likes of you and your shitty little sorry-for-yourself song!"

"Why are you doing this to me?" Harry whispered. Disappointment and the sour feeling of rejection rising within him. Angry tears were running down his cheeks, but Harry didn't care or even realise. His stomach was clenching, his heart racing.

Hurt had never felt that painful before. Harry clenched and unclenched his fists. He stood up. Unsteady, and with shaky knees. He had to hold the table to support himself, but he managed to hold himself upright, and starred right into the eyes of the small, blurry person in front of him. "WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?" he shouted again, letting all of his frustrations out.

He started to openly cry now, anger growing in his heart. He wanted to shout, break something, smash it, stomp on it...!

There was a loud crack, like splintered wood...

More laughter.

Harry looked, already dreading what he was going to see.

It couldn't be real! Underneath his foot was Lily, his guitar, looking at him with severe deep injuries.

Harry saw red. He grabbed the empty glass from his table and hailed it directly into the awfully evil grin of his torturer.

It fell right through him and smashed into the wall behind. This must have been an illusion. A trick being played on him. Glasses didn't fly through people.

He must have missed!

He grabbed the next best available item, which was the salt shaker, and went for another hit.

Again, it fell through the intruder and landed on the floor.

"WHAT KIND OF TRICK ARE YOU PLAYING ON ME? WHY ARE YOU DOING THAT? WHY? WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?" Harry kept on shouting until he felt a strong pair of hands grabbing him from behind. Someone was talking to him in a low and calm voice, trying to move him out of the restaurant, and into a more secluded corner of the hotel.

Somewhere in the background was a constantly louder growing sound of car sirens, and suddenly there was an odd and cold sensation around his wrists. A clicking noise. That was the last thing Harry remembered before he blacked out.


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: last chappie for today. Another long one.**

Withered Chalk Flowers

"Wow, Potty-poop, that was one remarkable exit!" The voice was back again, accompanied by a dreadfully monotone beeping noise.

Harry tried to open his eyes, but his lids were too heavy to be lifted. He heard footsteps. Quite a lot of them. Walking up and down what seemed to be a very long corridor. Some were rushed, others elongated, as if in slow motion. A few were limping. A funny, sweet smell was in the air, one he couldn't place, but knew he had smelled before.

"Uh oh," the voice was back, "someone's about to figure out where he is!" The voice taunted. Harry tried to ignore it. "This is not real, this is not real," he chanted silently, hoping to make it disappear.

A mocking, high pitched laughter was his answer.

A pair of footsteps moved closer to him and stopped in front of his bed. Someone pinched his hand. Hard. "Helloooo, can you hear me?" A female voice asked. "Come on Mr. Potter, wakey, wakey" it continued in a fake cheery tone.

"Yes come one, Mr. Thick-head, wakey, wakey" a more familiar voice repeated, and burst into that mocking high pitched laughter again.

"Wakey, wakey," it shouted again and again.

"WAKEY, WAKEY!" The voice rang so loud in his head that Harry automatically clammed his hands over his ears, but it didn't surveil. "WAKEY, WAKEY!" His head almost exploded. This voice wasn't coming from somewhere else. It was ringing inside his head!

This was either an aftereffect from too much drinking, or he was clearly going insane!

Harry tried to ignore this one and to obey the request of the other, more real voice. He attempted to open his eyes again.

He found himself in a small box of a room. Not a proper room even. It was more likely the middle of a great hall, but it had curtains drawn all around the little area of his bed which made it look like a tiny secluded chamber. That scenario was something Harry easily recognised. He was in the A&E.

With that conclusion, images of last night (was it last night, or had only a few hours passed since he was in the hotel? Harry wasn't too entirely sure) came back to his head: the interview, Miss Feller, the corner table in the restaurant. The one too many glasses of alcohol and...

Harry rubbed his eyes. Everything was blurry around the edges, a clear sign that he still had too much alcohol in his system, but he could see the silouette clearly, standing in the corner of the room, right behind the nurse.

His blonde hair seemed to be illuminated and looked like a halo shining around his head. He wore his customary smirk, one side of his mouth lifted up higher than the other, crossed arms and legs: the owner of the mocking voice.

The one, that shouldn't be here.

He wore the same outfit as the last time Harry had seen him. A red, long sleeved shirt, too short shorts, and a pair of brown Ugg boots. Harry hated those shoes. He used to make fun of them, saying that bear hunters in Canada probably had a more feminine looking footwear than this. The response he got was always the same: "they're soooo cute, Potty, and soooo comfortable, and you know nothing about fashion anyway. Just look at those Converse shoes you're wearing. They hardly have any sole left and you need a whole lot of imagination to recognise their colour."

This was usually the point in the conversation where Harry tried to open his mouth to protest. No one ever insulted his favourite pair of footwear. Ever.

This was also the point where the corners of his mouth moved upwards into a big and goofy smile, and his head started to nod as in some agreement, though there was nothing really that was to agree on at all. Draco just did that to him. Always.

Back then, when he was still nice. And alive.

Harry tried to focus on the nurse in front of him. "This is not real; this is not real," he kept repeating, but every time he glimpsed over the nurse's shoulder into the far right corner, Draco was still standing there, wearing his signature smirk and and all.

The nurse changed Harry's infusion and asked him about his details as well as his address.

"So you're still living in the same old shit-hole then? Why am I not surprised?" Rang a now very familiar, shrill and unnaturally high pitched voice, in his head. Harry tried to ignore it. Instead he kept his eyes trained on the nurse's pen as if to double check whether she jotted the information down correctly. "Is there anyone we can call to pick you up?" She asked. Harry gave her Hermione's number, truly afraid of what she would do to him when she arrived. It was probably good that he already was in the A&E of St Mary's Hospital.

Closing the tattoo parlour one hour early, because he was drunk in a hotel, then driving all the way down to Piccadilly to pick him up, just to find out that he'd already left with the ambulance and now coming here...

And on top of that he was turning insane. Harry automatically moved his head to the right.

"There was always something wrong with your brain, Potty-poop. Your mother probably dropped to off the changing table as a baby one to many times." Draco was still here, or better say not really here. really there in his brain...

Harry shook his head, though this turned out to be a bad idea, as it made him incredibly dizzy, and he had to vomit.

The nurse scolded him and handed him a bucket just in time. He should have known that a day with a surreal start like this and this unbelievable mid-part could only ever end in a proper nightmare.

Harry got woken up very abruptly a couple of hours later by a stinging pain on his left cheek. He jerked up in his hospital cot, not having realised that he had fallen asleep again.

A blurry, dark coloured outline slowly shaped itself into a large body with arms stemmed to the hips and a face with a grim expression. Now he knew why his cheek had started to hurt all of a sudden. Hermione had slapped him in the face! Nevertheless, was he absolutely relieved to see her, and a wide grin spread on his face.

"Harry whatever-your-middle-name-is Potter! don't you dare scaring me like that ever again! I almost got a heart attack, and I'm way to young for that shit, get it?" She yelled loud enough for the people three corridors down to 'get it'.

Harry sincerely tried to make an apologetic face, but it didn't work out well enough, as she continued nagging: "first I get told that you got pissed out of your head, and started to run havoc in some hotel, screaming at those invisible friends of yours, and that they had to get security, and the police up there to drag you out of the establishment. I was worried enough to phone every single police station in the area to find out whether they had you in a holding cell, with obviously no success, until my phone rings and there's a bloody hospital on the other line!" Hermione's face was bright red, and the vein on her forehead looked like it was about to bust.

"Its good that we're in a hospital actually," Harry noted: "the probably have something to help you with your blood pressure"

He realised immediately, that this wasn't a very clever thing to say, but apparently his brain filter was still out of order. Perhaps the hospital could help him with this problem as well?

Fortunately for him, Hermione started to laugh, "Oh, same old Potty, there is just no way to be angry with you for more than five seconds, is there?"

Harry shuddered. There it was. Potty. The same stupid nickname...

Harry had a look around, just to double check. This time, there was no vision of Draco lingering in the corner, and no alien voices inside his head. His hallucinations seem to have disappeared, which was a big relief.

He clumsily changed from the hospital gown into his regular clothes. They smelled awfully of tobacco, alcohol and sweat, but it didn't matter. Like a little duckling, he trotted behind Hermione towards the exit and into the car park, towards a pink Fiat 500. Hermione's car. Or so he thought. Upon seeing Harry's distasteful look, Hermione shrugged her shoulders "it's Ginny's," she mumbled. "My baby is in the garage. For the third time this month. Something about the exhaustion. Again. I guess I need to start looking for a new one soon. I've calculated how much I've spend repairing that bloody thing the last couple of months, and it looks like I'd be off cheaper by just buying a brand new Porsche." She shook her head.

"That's a joke, right?" Harry inquired, not having any clue about cars, but repair costs for a ford fiesta that apparently equalled the price of a brand new sports car seems to be a bit exaggerated. Or that it was a very rundown ford fiesta indeed.

Hermione quirked an eyebrow at him and sighed, then shook her head. That was so typical Harry. "You know, sometimes I really think that you were born in the 18th Century and accidentally stumbled across a time machine," she said with a laugh. "You cannot really be that clueless about cars, can you?"

"I just can't fathom them." Harry admitted. "I mean, where is the point of having one when living all my life in London. Traffic is horrendous, parking is severely overpriced, parking lots are almost unaffordable and you're just quicker going anywhere by tube. Plus, its better for the environment."

Hermione made a funny face: "since when do you care about the environment?" Harry shrugged his shoulders, not really having a response. He just used the environment comment to win the argument and Hermione knew it.

"I think it is convenient to have a car, and you're more independent. I hate waiting for the tube, waiting for the bus, waiting for a cab" ..

Harry shrugged his shoulders again. "You're just generally an impatient person then, I guess." With a small grin he added: "how do you feel about waiting in traffic then? Or waiting at a red light?" Hermione hit him in the shoulder, than pulled a key out of her jeans and opened the car doors.

They got it and she started the engine. "Straight to your place?" She asked. Harry glanced at his watch. "Shit no!" He exclaimed. It was already well after noon. "My shift starts in less then an hour." He actually managed to look terrified now.

"Can't you call someone?" Hermione looked concerned now: "You've just been released from the hospital after all. I don't think physical work it doing you any good in that state, plus you're still owing me the entire story of what had happened!"

Harry sighed. Of course, Hermione was right, and he owed her an explanation indeed. However, he didn't feel too good about phoning in sick again. Though, this time it would be the truth. Almost. Did a hangover count as a proper sickness? Harry was pretty sure that Mr Snape would disagree. "I'm not too sure if this is a good idea" he told Hermione in a small voice.

Hermione rolled her eyes and leaned over to pull her mobile phone out of the glove compartment. "What's the number?" She asked.

After explaining to Mr Snape that Harry wasn't feeling well and would not be able to come in for his shift, they drove to Harry's flat.

Followed by a lengthy discussion of eating preferences, they settled on Domino's pizza for their chat. Hermione opened a can of beer, and Harry wisely decided to stick to Pepsi for the rest of the night. Both of them sat cross legged on Harry's bed, nipping on pizza slices as Harry recalled last day's happenings.

Hermione already knew where he had woken up this morning, and how he had spent the night, courtesy of working with Ginny, so he could leave out some of the embarrassing moments of the day.

"Wow, I mean, that's... wow...! just brilliant! You're going to be a rock-star, babe!" Hermione all but shouted: "That's so exciting! and well deserved! You're an extremely talented musician... Wow.." She kept on ranting. Harry wasn't too sure on how to feel about the entire thing. He hadn't mentioned his hallucinations, feeling too embarrassed by them, and just told Hermione that he couldn't remember a thing of his drunk rant. Somewhere in his mind a voice kept on telling him, that he might have hallucinated Draco for a reason. Perhaps he wouldn't be too pleased that Harry made a career out of a song written only for him.

The song didn't mention a name. A tiny little ballad about a little boy, kicking a cotton ball and watch it fly away in the wind. No one would really be able to interpret it, but somehow it made Harry feel like he was singing lines straight out of Draco's diary, if he ever kept one.

Or perhaps last night was a misunderstanding?

Before he could dig any deeper into his thoughts, his doorbell rang. Harry tossed the pizza slice that he was just about to shove in his mouth aside, and went to open the door. He cursed himself inwardly when he found Ron, who was not only his friend, but also his supervisor. "Look Harry, I know you not sick, but I'm friend, OK, I wanna know what's up, yes?" He said in his broken English. Harry opened the door wider and waved Ron in. "Help yourself to some pizza," he said hopelessly, no idea how he was supposed to act in this situation. He desperately looked towards Hermione, hoping she would be able to help him out.

Hermione, sensing Harry's uneasiness started to explain: "It all started with Harry uploading a video on youtube, and it ended with me picking him up in Hospital this morning. For the detailed in-between information, you ought to get some beers first, because I promise you, this story requires a lot of drinking!"

Ron looked from Hermione to Harry, and then back again. Whether he didn't understand what Hermione just said, or he couldn't wait to get the story details, Harry didn't know. "Which brand beer you like?" Ron then asked and started to count his money.

"Fosters" Hermione said.

"Nothing" Harry mumbled.

"Shit!" Harry exclaimed, letting himself fall back onto his bed. "This guy is my supervisor. He's Mr Snape's right hand. You know... the guy you spoke to when you called in sick for me. I dunno what to do?"

"But he's your friend, too. Isn't he?" Hermione inquired.

"Yes." Harry confirmed: "but still, I mean, I feel bad now. I'm not really sick, am I?"

Hermione looked self assured: "Don't worry, mate, if he's your friend, he'll understand. This is some bat shit crazy story after all."

Harry couldn't deny that. A bit anxious, he waited for the doorbell to ring again, indicating that Ron was back.

They didn't have to wait too long. The ring on the door came much quicker than Harry had anticipated. Ron must have run to the corner shop and back. He obviously was very eager to get the details.

Hermione had been kind enough to fill Ron in without leaving any embarrassing detail out: the phone conversation with Gryffindor, the open mic in the pub, the night with Ginny, meeting his mum after three long years, the interview in the afternoon, the binge drinking incident, and waking up in the hospital afterwards.

Hearing all this, though having experienced it firsthand, Harry couldn't believe that all of it had truly happened to him, nor that this had only been two days.

He felt like getting a headache.

Harry's worries turned out to be unnecessary. Ron seemed to be quite understanding, and promised to cover whenever Harry needed to call in sick again due to his upcoming music career, as he had put it.

After another round of pizza and beer, Harry ending up drinking two cans himself, despite having vowed to refrain from alcohol. The conversation turned from Harry's crazy days to the Christmas dinner they were still planning.

Harry had truly forgotten all about it, but with Christmas only a week away, they agreed to settle on a date.

They decided on coming Wednesday, which gave them enough time to do the necessary shopping, and decide whom else to invite. It was also the date for Hanukkah, which Harry, who was raised Jewish, had not celebrated at all since the fall out with his parents.

"We should call it Hanukkah dinner instead of Christmas dinner," Hermione suggested. Harry, inwardly happy about the idea, declined. After all, he was the only Jewish person to attend, so it didn't feel right.

"Why not mix?" Ron asked. "We have Christmas tree, we have Christmas songs, but we have Jewish food and the menorah?"

"I like that idea, let's celebrate two holiday's in one!" Hermione looked eagerly at Harry. "Plus, I'd really like to try some Jewish dishes. I'm getting sick of the same old turkey every year."

"Yeah, I guess I like that, too" Harry admitted, scratching his head. Perhaps he could ask his mother for some cooking advice. it would probably be a good bonding experience over a safe topic.

"All set then!" Hermione nodded and lifted her hand to high five the two guys. "That is good idea. I don't want celebrate holiday like at home in Poland. I not want getting homesick." Ron admitted.

"It must be hard, not being able to see your family for christmas?" Hermione asked. Ron shrugged his shoulders, and starred out of the window. He seemed to be far away for a short moment. "It is okay. I have good job, and good money to help family at home. In Poland is no job for me." He replied. "Don't you miss your family a lot"? Harry asked. He never heard Ron talking about his family before, and had always assumed they were living in London.

"Yes. I do. I want to go back to Poland someday. I dream of good job there." Harry was surprised. They certainly had warehouses in Poland, too, didn't they?

He must have asked the question out loud.

"I not work in warehouse in Poland. I study accounting. But no good jobs. So I came here to earn money, and learn English. Or maybe I get accounting job here one day and bring my family. When my English is good enough."

That faraway look was back in Ron's eyes.

Harry was secretly happy not to be in his supervisor's shoes. Just imagine, he would have to go to Poland, a country he knew nothing about, to do some stupid labour work to feed his family.

Hermione sighed: "here we are, all whiney, just because our adult lives didn't turn out the way we wanted to. Like a bunch of big sissies." she shook her head and sipped on her beer. Harry laughed. Trust Hermione to lighten up the mood again. "What would I do without you guys?", he said, tossing a leftover slice or margarita pizza at Hermione.

"You'd probably be talking to your walls and socks by now," she replied dryly, but with a cheeky spark in her eyes, as she threw the slice back at him.

"Children!" Ron commented and rolled his eyes in a mocking manner and grinned. Harry threw the slice of pizza at him, but it was falling apart in mid flight and only half of it reached Ron's left cheek and left a tomato sauce mark there. Hermione, drunk as she was, bent over to him to lick it off. Ron blushed and looked helplessly at Harry, who grinned but otherwise pretended not to understand what was going on.

Though the mark had been quite small, Hermione continued licking Ron's cheek, getting coincidentally closer to his mouth. Ron tried to bent his face away, but there was no avail.

Harry excused himself to the bathroom, not wanting to watch the molesting, despite finding the situation utterly hilarious.

Long after Ron and Hermione had left. Together - Harry wasn't too sure how that had happened - he was laying wide awake in his bed, his thoughts circling.

He had re-read the business card Miss Feller had given him, and also reconciled the conversation he had with her. He even made a mental checklist of songs that he found suitable to add to the email, he was expected to send. But this was exactly what he was wondering about. Somehow, since his hallucinations started, selling 'Kickin' Cotton Balls' or publishing it just didn't feel right anymore. Or at least, it didn't feel right to do it without Draco's approval.

Suddenly, a vision hit him smack in the face! He had spoken to Draco, hadn't he? Though he had just been a hallucination, it had been real conversation, hadn't it? Perhaps he was just in a bad mood, or pissed of by something entirely different, and didn't really mind Harry publishing his song? Perhaps he even found the gesture sweet?

There was only one way to find out.

He wasn't really in the mood to get drunk again. His head was still pounding, and Hermione had to stop the car several times when they were driving back from the hospital, so that he could open the passenger door and vomit on the ground, all while Hermione was making disgusted faces at him and raised her eyebrow high enough to disappear under her hairline.

As soon as they had reached his flat, he had swallowed two painkillers, which he repeated just before going to bed. It didn't completely erase his headache, but at least dulled the pain.

He managed to forget all about it in his friend's company, but now the numb thumping was back.

He really didn't want to drink again. Ever. He already regretted the cans of beer this afternoon.

But it was the only way Harry knew to get Draco back. To talk to him again. Clear things up.

Plus, he tried to convince himself, he wasn't about to commit to some stupid binge drinking. He would stop the very moment Draco appeared to him. He would only drink whatever amount of alcohol that was necessary to conjure his friend. No extra drop.

Reassured, Harry got out of his bed, and put his jeans back on. He didn't bother with shirt as he would throw his fluffy, warm jacket on top of it anyway, and the small shop was just around the corner. A few extra steps perhaps.

He wore his favourite black beanie, only to hide his extremely messy hair, that had not been brushed in over twenty four hours and now resembled the mop the late Jimi Hendrix was famous for. Well, he was famous for his guitar skills, and not particularly for his hair though, for good reason.

Harry grabbed his wallet and sprinted down the steps, taking two at a time. In the shop, he selected the cheapest bottle of whiskey and a half priced vodka - just to be on the safe side, and threw two tenner on the counter, hoping it would be enough for his purchase.

Fortunately, it was and he got two chopper coins in return.

Harry returned back to his flat, and changed back into his comfortable pyjama bottoms. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed and unscrewed the whiskey with shaking hands. All of a sudden, he got nervous. He wasn't really sure of the reason though.

Harry took a deep breath. "No way back," he mumbled to himself, when he put the bottle straight to his lips, and took a deep gulp.

The liquid was burning down his throat, leaving a tingling sensation. It didn't feel as pleasant as it had yesterday, but almost made him sick. He closed his eyes and carefully had one sip after the other, always checking for signs that Draco had entered his room.

The entire bottle was empty within less than half an hour. Harry felt sick, hot, shaky and pretty much regretted his stupid idea. On wobbly legs, he tried to drag himself to the bathroom, feeling that his stomach wouldn't be able to hold its contents for much longer.

Very deep down, he remembered the small size of his flat, and he also knew that - usually - it only took approximately eight steps to get from his bed to right in front of the toilet. At that moment, this journey took ages. Everything was moving; the walls, the furniture, and even the door frame kept on wandering down the hall, trying to get away from him.

Sweat was dripping down his back and his forehead. His eyes were rolling back into his head. Harry could feel losing consciousness, though he tried his best to fight against it. But the more he fought, the less important his actual goal became. What did he actually need his bathroom for when the floor below his feet was so comfortably cold and just... there?

With that thought Harry gave up. He sank onto the floor, curled into a foetus position, and within only a couple of seconds, was completely passed out.

Something was hurting Harry's eyes. It was a burning sensation, but he didn't have any idea where it was coming from. His head was a dull mess. He knew he was lying on some hard surface, but he didn't have any specific idea to where he was. He was trying to make sense out of his form, but it was too hard to tell where body ended and where infinity began.

Finally, Harry figured out what was burning his eyes. The sun was just about to rise, and the powerful rays where shining directly into what he now recognised as his bedroom.

Harry felt sick, and turned around. Too quickly, as he emptied his stomach directly on the floor beneath him. By the looks of it, it wasn't for the first time. His head was currently lying in a foul smelling, dried substance. "Gross" he mumbled, completely disgusted with himself. He couldn't bring himself to get up though. Moving his head was too painful.

He never realised that he had such a heavy head! It must weigh a ton on its own!

Harry wondered for a moment how it was possible that he hadn't left a dent in on the floor yet. It must have been made of stone... Or perhaps titanium! He was amazed and looked at the carpeted floor in awe, and wondered if other people had such incredible floors, too. He gently stroked it with his hand, the material feeling rough, and somewhat dirty at the same time. When he lifted his hand up, it was covered in dust bunnies. They looked somehow cool, he had to admit. Not really like bunnies, but funny coloured somethings, a little bit like rolled up spider-webs, mixed with random fluff. If he collected enough of them, they would probably make a perfect pillow.

Maybe, as soon as his headache was gone, he would start making dust bunny pillows. It seemed to be such a brilliant idea, and Harry wondered why nobody else had come up with it yet.

Harry made another attempt to get up, but no avail. This time, fortunately, his stomach stayed content. He groaned and felt sorry for himself.

Why again, pray tell, did he put himself through this mess? On purpose, of all things, too!

"Harry..., Potty..., Potty-poop..., shitfacedude!" A soft voice called out to him. Harry opened his eyes carefully.

Still clad in his Ugg boots, red shirt and short shorts, Draco was sitting in the upper branches of his christmas tree, a big smile on his face.

Harry was still pretty much wasted, but he knew that there was something awfully wrong with that picture. He couldn't place his finger on what it was though. Damn alcohol infiltrated brain!

Harry carefully tried to speak out loud, but his voice was a screechy mess: "Hello Draco!" He croaked, almost inaudible. Draco, still smiling at him, didn't pay any attention to his words. "Harry..., Potty..., Potty-poop..., shitfacedude!" He repeated.

Maybe he really hadn't heard him after all. Harry tried again, louder: "Draco!" This time his voice easily hit somewhere above 90 decibel. There was no way Draco hadn't heard him!

Harry's throat was thanking him for the extra work with a stabbing pain. Pulling his hands to his adams apple, he double checked that he didn't have any deep flesh wounds. He couldn't remember cutting his throat, but it was always better to be safe than sorry, wasn't it?

Again, Draco didn't give any indication that he had heard him: " Harry Potter..., Potty..., Potty-poop..., shitfacedude!" He repeated once again. "Harry Potter..., Potty..., Potty-poop..., shitfacedude! Harry Potter..., Potty..., Potty-poop..., shitfacedude! " Draco kept on repeating like a broken record.

"Stop it! stop it! STOP IT!" Harry shouted and put his hands up to his ears.

"Shut up mate, some of us are trying to sleep here, son of a rainbow loving tree-hugger!" A muffled voice shouted angrily from the flat below.

"Harry..., Potty..., Potty-poop..., shitfacedude!" Crooned Draco again. Harry wasn't sure, but he got the feeling that his voice got louder every time. His covered ears didn't do anything to block him out, because, like last time, his voice was coming from inside his own head.

"Shut up! Please, I'm begging you, just shut the fuck up!" Harry cried. He was disappointed, angry, upset, sad, anxious all at the same time. His feelings weren't directed at Draco though, but at himself. Why was he stupid enough to think that he could have a proper conversation with a hallucination?

"You shut the fuck up yourself, stupid flea carpet on two legs!" A muffled voice came from the flat below: "or I'll be coming upstairs and shut your mouth for you!"

Harry sighed. Upsetting his neighbours was just what he needed right now. "Well done, Harry, well done," he mumbled to himself. He closed his eyes again and rolled himself onto his stomach, not yet comfortable with the idea of getting up.

"Harry..., Potty..., Potty-poop..., shitfacedude!" "Harry..., Potty..., Potty-poop..., shitfacedude!"

"Breathe in,... breathe out... , you're all alone in here, there is no one there." Harry quietly chanted to himself: "that's all in your head, just ignore it... breathe in,... breathe out..."

It seemed to help. Even though he still heard Draco's voice calling out to him, he had the feeling that his voice became lower every time he repeated that stupid sentence.

Harry didn't have any reconciliation of time and therefore wasn't able to tell if he had been lying on the floor for only a few minutes or a couple of hours, but with Draco's words fading away, he felt his mind being engulfed by a welcoming numbness once again.

He heard him once again, this time very faded, as silent as a wind's whisper: "Harry..., Potty..., Potty-poop..., always like children, we were." A tiny, ringing laughter: "I used to draw chalk flowers onto the sidewalk, just in front of my parent's house." The laughter was heavy with melancholy: "they're all withered now." The last words were almost inaudible.

Harry tried to respond, but is voice wasn't working. His mouth wouldn't listen to his commands. His tongue was lying heavy in his mouth, like a lifeless cloth. It was working after all! Draco was talking to him!

Maybe he had just dosed the alcohol wrong.

He tried to open his eyes. He had to make eye contact! Give proof that he was indeed listening! But his lids became to heavy for him to handle. Harry wanted to know what Draco meant. What was he trying to tell him?

But before he could think about it any further, a dizzy haze had stolen his consciousness once again.


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: finally back to normal sized chapters... :) I hope you enjoy...**

Super-glued Fairy Princesses

"Harry, you are an idiot!..."

"What in the world were you thinking..?"

"Are you finally completely out of your goddamn mind..?"

"You scared the living shit out of me!..."

"I'm only worried about you..."

"You know that you can talk to me anytime. Really!..."

"Why you not asked for help..?"

"Harry, are you feeling okay..?"

For the last two hours, Ron and Hermione had been pacing in front of Harry's flat, pestering him, babying him.

There was nothing wrong with him. He had just been stupid. He knew that now, and he didn't feel like ever repeating the incident.

"Mate, you wasted yourself two times in a row, you missed work! This isn't like you." Hermione had her hands on his shoulders and shook him slightly.

"I know," Harry slumped his shoulders. He wasn't in the mood for this discussion again.

Hermione sighed. "Harry, I think you have a problem!" Her eyebrow shoot all the way up to her hairline. She was dead serious.

Harry looked at her. "What are you trying to say?"

"Harry, we think you have drinking problem!"

Harry looked from one of his friends to the other: "No, I don't. You just..." He didn't really know how to explain himself: "You don't understand. It isn't like that. I had to extremely weird days. And... I guess I overdid a bit. But I'm not an alcoholic." He shook his head for emphasis

Hermione and Ron looked at each other. Harry hated their worried looks. It wasn't necessary. There was nothing wrong with him!

He sighed and sank back into his couch, trying to make himself smaller. "I promise I won't give you any further reason to be concerned, okay?" Harry, looking from one friend to the other, was greeted with two stoic masks. The air in the room suddenly felt chilly, like it just had dropped a good few degrees. He started to fidget and pull at a few strands of his hair.

"Harry" Hermione said in her most soothing voice. She took a deep breath, and looked at Ron, who moved closer. They were now sitting next to each other, shoulders touching. Not in an affective way, but to form an unity.

Harry hated it.

Hermione started again: "Harry, Ron and I have been talking. You have changed. That weird behaviour of yours didn't start two days ago. You've been out of it since Draco died."

Harry's breath rattled, and his fingers started to shake. What were those two saying? Of course he had been 'out of it'! His best friend had committed suicide all of a sudden! He was obviously still in shock!

He got angry. "Get out!" He shouted. "Get out of my flat, out of my sight, and fucking out of my life! You know nothing about me!" He stomped his foot for emphasis, throwing a tantrum like a child. This was how Hermione and Ron percieved his action as well. They didn't move an inch. Only their lines of worry increased.

"Fine," Harry sighed. "What do you want me to do?"

"We thought it might be best if one of us is staying with you, or you move in with one of us," Hermione answered.

"I don't need baby-sitting!" Harry replied, annoyed.

"We not want baby-sitting you, Harry, we want make sure you okay!" Ron said in his stupid broken English, that truly got on Harry's nerves at this very moment.

"I do NOT have an alcohol problem. I lost someone very important to me, and if you can't emphasise how that feels, congratulation to your happy lives!" His words were pure poison, that he spat in his friend's faces.

Hermione tried again: "Harry, please! We know you're grieving. We understand that you're going through a tough time. This is why we want to help. You have to admit, that the last days have proven as much!"

Harry rolled his eyes. He didn't want to hear any of this. They didn't get him.

Once again he tried to usher them out of the flat, but they stayed. Persistent that he accepted help that he knew, he didn't need.

"Harry!" Hermione put all she wanted to say in this one word.

Harry wanted to scream. Didn't she see how much she was suffocating him?

"Just let me breathe. Please!" He mumbled, but his friends either hadn't heard, or didn't care.

Ron took a deep breath and stood up. "Okay, if you don't need me as friend, I will speak to you as your supervisor. You missed work, because you was drunk. Today you did not follow procedures to call in sick. I will speak to Mr Snape for disciplinary actions." Ron then grabbed his jacked and left.

"As if I care!" Harry mumbled, then felt a piercing pain on his left cheek. The one that was still swollen and red from the last time Hermione had slept him. Harry didn't dare to look at his friend. He could imagine what she looked like; all red in the face, fists clenched at her sides.

He braced himself for her lecture, which would probably be loud enough for the customers at Tesco's down the road to hear, but it never came.

Harry lifted his head. Hermione wasn't red in the face, nor were her fists clenched. She just looked at him, tears rolling down her face, eyes dulled with disappointment.

He had never seen Hermione cry before.

Harry didn't know for how long they starred into each others eyes, but he was certain that it was one of the most awkward moments of his life.

Hermione broke the starring contest. She turned around, and walked towards the door. She didn't turn around when she left the small flat, but Harry was sure he heard her mumble: "Bye Harry. I hope you'll wake up soon!"

Then she was gone, too and Harry was alone.

He didn't move or change his position on the floor. Harry was frozen somewhere in time and space, his head flowing in numb nothingness. In his current world, clock's weren't ticking, leaves weren't withering, and nothing every changed.

He wished he could live here permanently.

His friends words had hurt him, but looking at the floor were the puddle of vomit had been before Hermione had cleaned it away, he feared that they might have been right after all.

He had to prove them differently.

The following day, Harry managed to leave his flat on time. He was punctual enough to enter the Warehouse half an hour before his shift started. That was quite different from his usual working habits. He was known for running into the building with less then twenty seconds to spare, and he often enough received a verbal warning for his lateness.

He managed to stock the shelves in a much quicker pace than most of the other days. Usually he was too busy daydreaming or nursing a hangover to be focused.

None of the supervisors or managers was around to praise him for his good work, nor did anyone seem to care.

Even his break was finished on time, and Harry was proud of himself, but still nobody seemed to have noticed. He was just about to continue his task, when Mr Snape walked towards his aisle.

"Mr. Potter, a quick word in my office, please?" Mr. Snape asked. Harry nodded, and followed him. Mr Snape took a seat behind his desk, then fumbled something out of the top drawer. It was a plain white envelope, which he handed to Harry.

His eyes were locked on Mr Snape, when he tore the envelope open. Mr Snape's fingers seemed to dance over the numbers zero and nine, which was the extension for the security department.

Inside the envelope was a standard A4 sized paper with a lot of official looking print on it. Harry skimmed through the four paragraphs, and was disappointed to find that Ron had been a snitch.

The letter was an invitation for a disciplinary hearing. Harry gulped. Mr Snape's' fingers were now firmly attached to the digits on the phone. Harry understood. His manager was nervous because he assumed that Harry was unstable enough to have a fit right in his office.

Wordlessly, Harry rushed out of the office and into the smoking area. He needed a nicotine fix! What mess had he gotten himself into?

For the rest of his shift, Harry was working in a slow pace. Slower than usual, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Everything was about to go downhill anyway, wasn't it?

While stocking baby diapers and formula, his mind was circling around the letter. It was his first disciplinary, so he had no idea what to expect. Perhaps it would be a good idea to talk to Ron? Not that he really wanted to see his 'friend' at the moment. Truth to be told, he wanted to give this piece of s...ugar a beautiful shiner.

Harry grinned. Somehow this triggered the memory of a night out, when he once had to carry Draco home. He and Daphne had smoked some weed during an open mic night - the first time in his life - Draco had claimed.

Harry remembered this particular night clearly.

It had been one of the first nights Draco had dragged him out of his flat to meet with some friends. Until then he had led the lifestyle of a hermit, only leaving his place to go to work.

Because even back then he did almost everything Draco asked him to do, he followed him, and his friend Daphne, into the pub. He hadn't planned on singing. It was still back in the days when he had given up on music, and refused to have anything to do with it. But Draco wouldn't have been Draco if he didn't manage to drag Harry on stage, and only a few beers later, they performed 'Proud Mary' in Harry's warm tenor and Draco's cat-like wailing.

Harry smiled. That was the best time of his life. That was when he started believing in his dreams again.

The crowd cheered, though even their friends had to admit that they sounded dreadful. Well, Draco sounded dreadful. But it didn't matter. Draco had the aura and stage presence people immediately adored, despite being left with a permanent hearing damage. Harry knew. He was one of them.

Their amateurish performance inspired others to go on stage, and at the end of the night, all of their friends had been on stage.

Harry had been surprised to find that his childhood friend Blaise was actually Draco's best friend Daphne's boyfriend, but found it funny that most of his and Draco's friends knew each other.

After the the pub closed for the night, they met up with some of the other performers. Seamus and Oliver were a funny duet of brothers from Scotland with strong accent.

It took a couple of beers and a lot of male bonding, before Harry was able to understand one word of what they were saying.

Draco thought the accent was 'cute', which was so very typical. He seemed to find anything cute that was not Harry related.

Unfortunately, he couldn't deny that both brothers were nice guys.

They were strolling around Soho, no specific destination in mind, yet no one wanted to go home.

It was a mild summer's night, and even past midnight it was twenty degrees.

Soho, already bursting with people on a normal day, was filled with people, hipsters and tourists, all of them walking, talking and dancing on the streets. It was typical Soho-ness, Harry thought, looking at the wannabe-a-hippy parade in front of him. He could have spent eternity just walking up and down the street.

With all the festival talk and their rumbling stomachs on top of that, it was spontaneously decided to have a midnight picnic.

After a couple of beers had been purchased from the close by underground station, Seamus pulled a small, zip-lock bag from the depth of his jacket. He then mixed the ingredients with some loose tobacco, and rolled them into a neat looking blunt, which he lit up and after a few drags, handed to the person sitting next to him.

At first, Draco and Daphne refused to try, because none of them had smoked marijuana before, but soon their curiosity took over. "It's not strong, but strong enough for a beginner," he grinned when he handed it over to the girls.

Draco giggled, when he took the cigarette. His expression reminded Harry of a child on Christmas morning, and he had to giggle along.

Tears of laughter were running down on Harry's cheeks as he remembered Draco, dancing around Green Park with no care in the world, arms spread wide. He was spinning around in circles, going faster and faster until he lost his balance and felt to the ground.

Big, round tears were rolling down on his cheeks then. "I'm not a proper fairy!" He pouted. "I lost my fairy wings!"

Daphne clumsily helped Draco looking for his wings. Both ignored the laughter coming from their friends.

Harry was dying of laughter, but managed to ask Seamus in between giggles, if it was really only marijuana that he had given them. Seamus looked offended for a second, but then padded Harry on the shoulder. "Don't yer worry, mate. Yer boyfriend will be alright soon!"

Harry was high enough to feel relieved, and didn't question them further.

Of course the fairy wings had not been found, and Harry ended up dragging Draco back to his house, as he refused to leave without them.

When Harry came to visit Draco the next morning, he was greeted by a rather odd surprise. Draco, still stoned, opened the door wearing a pair of pink wings that he must have got from the children's fancy dress shop around the corner. "I won't loose my wings ever again!" He grinned. "They're super-glued now!"

"Oh, how awesome," Harry mumbled sarcastically.

In the meantime, Draco twirled in front of the mirror. His wings were indeed not only strapped around the shoulders, but dripped with foul smelling glue, that stuck them to his skin.

"I'm a fairy princess" he sang gleefully.

"A fairy princess that bathed in super-glue!" Harry mumbled.

Draco giggled "I'm a super-glued fairy princess,"

Harry shook his head, but stood up and brought his friend a glass of water in the hopes that it would calm him down. He was growing concerned at the erratic behaviour. He had never seen anyone being spaced out for so long after only a bit of marijuana. Truth to be told, it quite scared him. And it didn't make sense. Draco only had a little bit. Heck, he had smoked the same stuff, and did not seem affected at all.

Harry sighed, then went to the kitchen to grab some coffee.

Harry pulled out a tissue to dab his eyes. He remembered exactly how concerned he had been, and what a relief it was when Draco started to act normal again.

Harry snorted.

Draco had insisted keeping the wings attached, just to find out for how long the super-glue would last. He was sure, Draco was rather disappointed that they fell off when he had a shower that day. Apparently super-glue was everything but super.

All of a sudden, this memory felt important. As if there was something else that needed to be remembered.

It occurred to Harry later, that his recent behaviour must look to his friends like Draco's did to him that night. Being concerned was a natural reaction when caring for someone, wasn't it?

With this in mind, Harry decided to prove to Hermione and Ron that nothing was wrong with him. When his shift was finished, he went to the locker room, got changed and left. This dreadful day was finally coming to an end.

Harry snatched the last vacant seat on he tube, and found himself sitting next to Ginny. "Hi Harry!" she greeted him.

"Hi" he repeated back, then starred to the ground. A dreadful feeling crept up in his stomach. How are you supposed to interact with a woman after a one night stand?

Ginny seemed to have less problems starting a conversation. "How have you been?" She asked, a shy grin plastered on her face. Harry knew it was fake. A mask. Little Miss Innocent was a game Ginny had mastered.

"Hermione told me she had to pick you up from the hospital two days ago! Are you all right? You're not really ill, are you? Nothing contagious, right?" she blurred in that bubble-gum voice of hers. "I was so worried about you."

Harry had to look away to roll his eyes, so Ginny couldn't see it. Turning towards her again he smiled and nodded: "I'm okay, thanks for asking."

"Oh that's good to know" she answered, her smile a bit wider. "I was wondering if you wanted to meet up again." She did that typical girlie thing: lowering her head, and looking up at him through her long, fake eyelashes, with a well practised shy smile playing around her lips. Harry had seen this expression often enough to recognise it for the predatory look it actually was.

He agreed to another date anyway.

Presenting a girlfriend to Hermione and Ron would show them how perfectly all right everything in his life really was, wouldn't it?

"Are you free on Wednesday? I'm having a Christmassy Hanukah dinner at my place, and a couple of friends are coming."

"I know," Ginny giggled. "Hermione told me. She already invited me to come along. She said that she told you!" Her smile showed a hint of uncertainty for a second.

"Right!" Harry drawled out, stretching the 'i' over two entire seconds. Of course he knew. Hermione had basically sledge-hammered that into his head two days back, along with dietary needs for the two of them.

After the encounter, he almost missed getting off at the right stop. He jumped off the train, contemplating whether Ginny would expect a kiss.

By the time he reached home, Harry was tired enough to climb straight into bed. Without removing his shoes, glasses, or taking of his jacked, he let himself fall on the mattress and closed his eyes.

He must have been exhausted, because even with his spinning mind, he managed to fall asleep within seconds.

Monday started pretty shitty. It was his first early shift in a long time, and he was two hours late because he didn't hear his alarm clock. Apparently Harry's alarm was loud enough for the rest of the building though, and an annoyed neighbour woke him some time later.

When he turned up at work, his colleagues ignored him. So did Mr Snape. Harry sighed. That one would probably be added to the list of things HR wanted to talk to him about. It reminded him that he still hadn't spoken to Ron about the situation. Thinking back to Saturday, he had the slight feeling that his friend tried to avoid him at all costs. "Stupid polish bastard!" Harry grumbled to himself.

When he got home from work, Harry found three missed calls from an unknown number on his mobile. He thought about calling back when he noted that the caller had left a voicemail. Miss Feller's PA. They were still waiting for his email.

"Bugger to hell and back!" Harry thought. He still wasn't sure about sending his song.

His phone started to ring again. Harry checked the display, but in only showed 'number unknown'. He was sure that this was someone from Gryffindor again, so he answered with his most professional voice: "Good Afternoon, you've reached Harry Potter. How can I help you?"

"Hello Harry!" A voice replied on the other line. "I hope it is okay for me to call you?"

Harry gulped. "Hello mom!" He replied in a shaky voice. When his mother didn't say anything back, he added: "how have you been?"

"Erm, great... Yes, all is good, all is good, thank you for asking." He heard his mother rambling. Then the line was was quiet again. Harry took a deep breath, but before he could say anything, his mother continued: "I was wondering if you might want to come for a visit again? I really enjoyed your company. It was good. For both of us, wasn't it? I can cook for you again. Have you already eaten anything? You never were much of a cook yourself. Do you still love Grandmother's chicken soup? You do, don't you? She gave me her recipe!"

Harry rolled his eyes. "When do you want me over?" he squeezed into the monologue.

"Do you have any plans for tonight? We can have dinner together. Your dad is out of town. Some conference in Bristol, I think, so it would only be the two of us." His mother rambled on. He agreed to come over at six. It was just after four, plenty of time for a shower, getting dressed, and then there was something else, but he couldn't remember. Harry shrugged his shoulders.

Harry still couldn't put his finger on what else he wanted to do, but double checked all appliances to make sure that nothing was left switched on. He then saw his laptop sitting on the kitchen table, the screen-saver on, showing a picture of a red headed woman.

He had a date with Ginny tonight.

Harry closed his computer and went back to his bedroom. He changed out of the argyle shirt and put on classier, black one instead. Harry took his keys and mobile and left the small, back device in his hand had a crack from the far right corner down to the middle. Harry never noticed before, but he had never studied his mobile as much as he did now. there was no signal in the underground, but he kept on contemplating whether he should cancel his date with Ginny or not.


	10. Chapter 10

Attention Barking Sheep

Harry checked himself in the mirror. His face was clean shaven, and his hair almost tamed.

It was Wednesday today, and the guests for the Chrisnukha dinner would soon arrive. In fact, his doorbell should ring any moment. Ginny and Hermione had promised to be here early to help with the dinner preparations. Harry himself was everything but a talented chef.

He was nervous about seeing Ginny today. Their date on Monday went unexceptionally well, so well in fact, that they went out again on Tuesday. But while Monday was a romantic comedy at the cinema, Tuesday was a plunge straight down the rabbit hole.

It started innocent enough. Little touches, and small butterfly kisses here and there. Holding hands. A glance in each others direction.

But soon their kisses became more intense and they were too occupied with each other to see the end of the film.

Ginny opened her blouse, and the silky fabric slid off her shoulders. Her perfume was a bit too intense and too flowery, and burned his nose, but Harry decided not to care. In his best attempt to appear heterosexual,his fingers found their way underneath Ginny's skirt.

Ginny moaned. Her head fell back, and exposed her slender neck. Her fingernails were scratching his scalp, his neck, then down to his shoulder blades. His lips grazed her breastbone, glided towards her erect buds, moving further down.

"Yessss, just right there... Yeah, yeah, yeah... More... ." Ginny exhaled, her body twitching underneath him, as his tongue dipped into her belly button. So far, it wasn't too bad.

Down, down, further down. Ginny spread her legs in anticipation. With shaking and unruly fingers, he tried to unbutton his shirt, but those tricky little nuisances called buttons didn't want to budge. Harry grew frustrated, and ripped the bloody fabric off.

As he continued kissing down on Ginny's stomach, she pushed him back.

Harry looked at her, confused. All lust had disappeared from her face. In fact, she looked disgusted, with her nose wrinkled and her lips drawn downwards.

She was starring at Harry's naked chest and stomach.

Harry knew that he wasn't in best shape. Despite being on the skinny side, he had a little potbelly, thanks to many years of unhealthy eating habits, and too much beer. He emptied his lungs, then drew his stomach in as much as he could. If suffocating himself was required to get laid tonight, so be it!

He was just about to lean forward again, but Ginny was already getting dressed. She was still starring at Harry's torso, rolling her eyes and telling him to breathe again. "Harry,this is not about your shape!" Ginny drawled, then paused as is she had to think of the right words. "It's just... I mean,..." She took another deep breath, then started playing with the fur on his chest. "Have you ever considered... you know... to groom yourself?"

Now it was Harry's turn to stare. He had had a shower just right before their date. He had used body lotion, and deodorant, and even a small spritz of Hugo Boss homme. He shaved his beard, combed his locks, and put on clean underwear.

What else was there to do?

The confusion must have shown on his face, as Ginny went to explain: "You know... shaving or waxing off that..." she then pulled at a couple of his chest hairs.

Understanding finally dawned on Harry's face.

Harry starred at the innocent looking wax strips in front of him. He wasn't sure about putting them on his chest at all. The procedure looked painful and inhuman in his eyes. If wax strips had been invented in medieval times, they wouldn't have been used as grooming equipment, but torture devices!

He read over the instructions for the third time, and almost memorised it word by word. It was pretty straight forward: take a strip, warm it up between your hands, pull it apart, and apply to the area you plan on freeing off body hair.

Harry looked down on his naked body. the hair on his chest was thick and curly, and there was a small ring around his belly button, that travelled down to his pubes. He only had to wax of his chest, right? The hair further downstairs was totally acceptable on a bloke, wasn't it?

Harry took a very deep breath.

Then another one.

Finally, he opened the pack. He warmed it up as instructed, feeling a bit stupid by doing so, then pulled them apart. He wasn't so sure about applying both halves at the same time, and decided that it would be best to only try one.

He stuck the first half to the middle of his chest, and placed the second one on the closed toilet seat next to him.

'That actually doesn't feel too bad' he thought. The warmth was comfortable, as he smoothed the strip down his chest.

According to the instruction manual, he now had to pull it off in one swift movement. Harry thought that this was probably similar to removing a plaster. He had a lot of experience with that. Having been a kid with a skateboard led to a lot of badly scraped knees.

The pain was piercing.

Harry let out a shriek, and stumbled backwards, until he found a surface to sit down on. Then he took a deep breath. He glanced down his chest, expecting to find a deep gash with his bones sticking out, and his clavicle exposed, but only found a spot of hairless skin.

Judged by the size of it, he would have to repeat the experience at least ten times. Harry almost screamed again.

Resigned, he reached for the strip he had placed onto the toiled seat, just to realise that he...

...sat right on top of it.

Harry jumped up as if bitten by a poisonous snake, but it was too late. That dreaded thing had already attached itself to Harry's probably most painful area.

Harry carefully walked the two steps to his sink and grabbed it with both hands. Then he exhaled deeply. He clenched his teeth, and squinted his eyes. For a moment, he rested his head on the cold porcelain, hoping it would soothe his nerves. A moment later he splashed his face with cold water.

Harry waddled towards his bed, and very slowly lowered himself onto the mattress. Every movement was literally a pain in the backside.

He spread his legs in slow motion, thinking that he looked like a pregnant woman, minus the womb. But giving birth was probably less painful then what he was about to do.

Sucking in his breath, he moved his left hand to stretch the skin around the waxing strip, and then counted to three. He was just about to pull, when every ounce of bravery left his body.

He panted for a moment, then tried again. His hands were shaking now. He stretched his skin as hard as possible, inhaled as much air as his smoker's lung would allow, then bit his pillow while attempting to pull the strip one more time. Sweat was cocooning his body.

Harry managed to remove about half an inch in slow motion. The pain was the most horrible thing he had ever experienced in his life! As far as he remembered, being kneed into the same area was almost pleasant in comparison.

There was only one thing left to do: Harry started to cry.

This was the moment the doorbell rang.

Hermione and Ginny had arrived.

"Shit! shit! shit! shit! shit!" Harry could hardly pretend that he wasn't at home. He had invited them.

"One moment!" He shouted to buy himself a few more minutes. "I'm having a dump!"

He heard the girls giggling, and some murmur from downstairs-dude about 'too much information.'

Very carefully, he moved his legs and the rest of his body, until he archived a sitting position, then waddled to his wardrobe, and grabbed some comfy Adidas sweatpants and a T-Shirt.

Harry had to hold his breath once again, as he tried to lift one leg to put his trousers on.

There was another ring on his doorbell, and a loud knock on the door. The girls grew impatient, and he heard Hermione shout: "Mate, did you get a severe case of diarrhoea overnight?"

Harry thought that he would trade his misery for a severe case of diarrhoea at any time.

For a moment he thought about shouting back "yes, I have," because he needed to find an explanation for his funny walk. But didn't people with leaking fluids tend to move rather fast? This was precisely what Harry was trying to avoid. "I'm sorry, but I've hurt my back really badly!" He said instead, continuing his mission to reach the door within the next two minutes. "I'll be right here," he informed the girls.

Walking turned out to be a little less painful when he spread his legs, bent his knees, and puffed out his bum as far as possible.

He reached the door, and opened it for his friends to enter.

"Oh my poor Harry," Ginny cooed, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Hermione rolled her eyes, and proceeded to the kitchen.

"Oh Harry," Ginny cooed again. "Will you tell me what happened?Your back was in perfect condition when you left my place earlier?

'Uh Oh', Harry thought. He had never been a good liar. He was thinking really hard. What would be the best excuse for back pain?

He must have taken too long to reply, because Ginny was now looking at him with raised eyebrows. "I"m fine," Harry answered quickly. "Its just, that... I have a headache, too." He had no idea were this lie came from, it just emerged from his mouth. Ginny brushed her hand through his hair. "Just lie down, and let me give you a back massage, I guarantee you'll feel much better in just a few moments."

What sounded to be a great offer at any other time didn't hold any appeal to Harry at the moment. "You know, I don't think this is a good idea," he said. "My back hurts quite a lot, and my doctor advised me that a massage would only increase the pain."

Ginny seemed to accept his explanation. "You've seen a doctor already? How did you get an appointment so quick?" Are you in a lot of pain?" She fired her questions at him, then looked around the room. "Where is your medication?" She asked.

"Medication?" Harry replied.

"Yes, medication!" Ginny confirmed, "for your back. You look like you're in a lot of pain, the doctor must have prescribed you some painkillers. Where are they? You look like you need one."

"Erm..." Harry scratched his head. He had to think up something fast. "I didn't, couldn't pick up the prescription yet," he said. Ginny nodded. "No problem Harry, where did you put it? I can get it for you."

"Well..." Harry started, praying for an epiphany to drag him back out of that mess. "I had a painkiller at the doctor's. He gave me one, and then the prescription for some more. It was quite a strong one. Very strong. I'm not supposed to take another pill for the rest of the day. I'm supposed to take another one tomorrow, if my back doesn't get better overnight. If I still need it tomorrow, I'll go and pick it up in the morning. Yes, that what I'll do!" He blurred out, nodding to himself.

He must have gained some acting skills, because Ginny looked like she believed every word. Harry sighed with relief, but then looked towards the kitchen.

Hermione was standing in the door frame, left eyebrow raised, and both arms crossed. Harry swallowed. She was not convinced.

"Harry, can I have a word?" Hermione asked. Her eyebrow sat so high that Harry wasn't sure whether it was still a part of her face. She had started tapping her foot as well. The right one.

Not good at all.

Harry gulped, and was just about to get up and waddle over to his bathroom, or 'the Communication Centre for Affairs of Utter Privacy' as Draco had nicknamed it.

Fortunately, Harry was saved by the bell. Ron had arrived.

A short time later, everyone was gathered around Harry's small couch.

Just as everyone was about to get comfortable, the doorbell rang again. Harry was surprised. He hadn't invited everyone else. Before he managed to waddle to the door, which would probably lead to having to explain the back pain story again, Hermione had sprung up and opened the door, a 'you owe me' expression on her face.

Harry almost spat out his food when he saw Blaise and Daphne enter his flat. The two of them spotted big grins on their faces, as if they were happy to see Harry again. Harry's lips curled in a snarl. He didn't want those two people at his party. He hadn't spoken to Blaise since his friend's unfortunate invitation to their own Christmas dinner which Harry had declined. What where those traitors doing here, and who invited them? Harry looked around the room.

He glared at Hermione, who quirked her eyebrow again. Harry realised that she did that a lot lately.

For a small moment, he considered storming out of the room, like a toddler in the prime of a tantrum. Unfortunately, that scenario involved a lot of footwork, and Harry was not up for that. Waxing strips could be so inconsiderate!

Hermione and Ginny played perfect hosts. None of them had been bothered by Harry's childish behaviour. In fact, they acted as if they had expected nothing less, which only fuelled Harry's frustration more.

He had to be alone. He needed to get out of here!

With a lot of effort, he managed to get up, and waddled towards the bathroom. He locked the door behind him, then carefully sat down on the toilet and sulked.

If they wanted to have great time without his participation, they would have to do so without a bathroom, because this one was going to be blocked until the last person went home.

Harry crossed his arms in front of his chest for good measurement.

A short time later, someone knocked on the door. A satisfactory smile played around Herry's lips.

The person knocked again. Harry, of course didn't react. This bathroom was not going to be taken over by the enemy! He would remain on his toilet seat until the enemy retreated. Defeated by full bladders or wet trousers.

The person outside the door was very persistent. They knocked again. And again. And again. Then Harry thought he heard a stifled sigh. 'One down, four to go' the thought to himself.

Something was moving on the other side of the door. Maybe they haven't given up yet. Then Harry heard a funny noise. It sounded like metal. He listened more carefully. It sounded like a screwdriver. Harry looked up just as the door opened, and Hermione walked in. She closed the door behind her, and sat cross-legged in the ground. She starred at Harry without saying a word.

It unnerved him. He was convinced that he just shrank a couple of inches. Nervously, Harry started to fidget.

Hermione was still starring. She hadn't said a word, her eyebrow wasn't raised, and her arms uncrossed. Harry gulped. This fake calmness was scarier than a tantrum. He had no idea what to do. Perhaps, ignoring her would be a fantastic idea? Harry tried his best to focus on his fingers, drumming a steady rhythm onto the toilet seat.

Something smacked his head.

Harry saw the toilet roll falling into his lap, and looked at Hermione, who was still sitting of the floor, armed with two more rolls, just for the case she might need them.

"What's the matter?" Harry barked at her.

"That's what I would like to know, too," she replied.

Harry threw the toilet roll back at her, but Hermione didn't seem to be bothered. She started humming, and Harry recognised the melody. It was HIS kicking cotton balls song! How could SHE hum his song when he was angry with her?

"You know, mate, why don't you just tell me what's wrong with you before this bottled up anger is causing you a heart attack?"

Harry huffed. "Attention barking sheep!" He mumbled, using the same expression Draco had used every time Harry did something to annoy him.

"I see, you're acting like a proper grown up today?" Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "Blaise and Daphne left, by the way," she added. "They don't understand what's going on with you either." Harry was about to explode .

"You've been acting strange since we got here!" The inquisitive eyebrow was now back in full force.

'There we go' Harry thought. He knew Hermione didn't buy his back pain story, but had honestly hoped that the party was distraction enough to nag him about it.

'Whatever' he thought. He would not give in! "I have back pains!" He pressed between clenched teeth, stretching every word to emphasise his annoyance.

"You don't" Hermione replied, starring him straight in the eyes. Harry banged his head at the cooling bathroom tiles, then let out a huff and told her the entire story.


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: and the next chapter :) I hope you enjoy.**

Floral Coloured Pubes

Hermione laughed, gulped for air, laughed again, and complained that she couldn't breath. Harry was sitting on his toilet seat, watching her. He had just finished telling her the story of his little waxing accident, and Hermione acted as if this was the funniest thing she had ever heard.

Surely, there were people out there who did more stupid things.

A knock on the door informed Harry a moment later that his parents had arrived.

Shit!

Harry waddled back into the living room, where his parents sat on the couch next to Ron, and made faces.

"Hell, what was I thinking?" Harry mumbled, and Hermione snickered, then extended her hand in greeting. "Hi, Mr and Mrs Potter, I have not seen you in ages, how are you?"

Harry's parents scrutinised her. They had no idea who she was, but were clearly displeased with the purple streaks in her hair, and the piercings decorating her face, along with the small tribal tattoo next to her left eyebrow. "It's me, Hermione," she offered.

Harry's father looked up. "So what do you do, Hermione?", probably hoping for an answer like 'Oh, I'm still in university, studying for my PHd in quantum science, and as soon as I'm finished, I will get rid of all my facial decor, start a proper job, earn a lot of money, and start a family.'

It was easy enough to see disappointment washing over his face when Hermione explained that she was a tattoo artist.

"No, I don't study." Hermione replied upon Mrs Potter question. "I enrolled for a degree in art, but it wasn't really my cup of tea. I had started tattooing to pay for tutition fees, but it turned out that this was actually what I wanted to do with my life."

"Well," Harry's mother shook her head, but then forced a smile on her face, "if this is what you want to do, then it was the right choice."

Harry's father wasn't that easy pleased, and mumbled something about every good family having a black sheep somewhere.

At this moment Harry knew that they would never be able to reconcile their relationship.

This was going to be a very long night.

Harry often wondered how parents like his could have ended up with a son like him.

Hermione called him to assist her with something outside. Harry glared daggers at her. She off all people knew how painful walking was for him. That woman was a nutter! Harry was just about to refuse, but Hermione gave him that look. It was probably a good idea to follow her.

Ever so slowly, he followed her down the stairs. They left the building, then walked around to the small shed, where the litter bins were being kept. Hermione hopped on top of one of them, then opened her beaded bag bag.

It took Harry a few moments to realise that his friend was rolling joint, and he starred at her with big eyes. Hermione just grinned at him. "Having to suffer through your parents for the rest of the evening, I figured that we deserve one of those." Harry, regretting having invited his parents to the party, wholeheartedly agreed.

"Aw, don't worry Harry, I know you meant good, and you're parents aren't bad people. They just come from a different generation. We're naturally bound to clash one way or another," she said, reassuring him. Harry grinned. "I haven't had a spliff in ages!"

Hermione laughed: "There you go, Mr waxing strip."

"Tell me 'bout it" Harry mumbled as he lit up the spliff. He closed his eyes, and took a deep drag. He could feel the toxic fumes climbing down his lungs, calming him. The marihuana scented the air around them, and clouded his worried mind. He could feel all weight being lifted off his shoulders. Getting high truly was mankind's greatest treasure.

They finished their last spliff (they ended up sharing three) then stretched their tired limbs. Harry felt pins and needles all over, even between his toes. It was quite a funny feeling actually, now that he concentrated on it. He giggled with every step that he made, and soon discovered that this sensation intensified when he walked on tiptoes.

"Slow down, ballerina!" He heard Hermione call after him, shuffling behind him. Harry turned around in a perfect spin, and lost balance. The piercing pain in a rather private area, felt like skin being ripped off his testicles. Harry couldn't help the wailing scream, that left his lips.

When he got back on his feet, he was distracted by the tingling feeling in his toes again. He continued to tiptoe up the stairs.

"One, step, two step, dub step, three step," he counted, until a voice interrupted him. "You're counting wrong!"

Harry looked down, confused. "What?" He asked, though he understood every word.

"I said you're counting wrong!"

"No, I am not!" Harry complained. "I can count any way I like!"

"No you can't. There is a rule: one step, two step, three step; no dub step."

"I can count dub step, if I want to count dub step." Harry argued. "Creativity is not a crime!"

"But dub is not a number!"

"It doesn't have to be a number" Harry crossed his arms.

"How can you count steps properly, if you don't use proper numbers?"

"I don't care how many steps there are" Harry replied.

"If you don't care how many steps there are, why are you counting them in the first place?"

Harry rolled his eyes, growing tired of explaining common sense: "I'm only counting for the sake of counting, so whatever I count doesn't need to be countable, because I don't need any results!" Harry threw his hands in the air, when another piercing pain interrupted his explanation. It felt like taking a dumb after having drunk a bottle of hot Tabasco sauce. Harry only did that once, but the pain remained unforgettable.

He opened his mouth to realise that he didn't remember the previous conversation. Confused he looked at Hermione, who's forehead was frowned.

"What's up?" Harry asked.

Hermione let out a deep sigh: "I still don't understand you're counting business"

"Where have you been?" Ginny asked, clearly not happy about being left behind with Harry's stuck up parents.

"Important business!" mumbled Hermione, and walked towards the bathroom.

"Harry, did your back get any better?" asked his mother. Harry turned around with a questioning look on his face. "Back pain?" He asked, not remembering having had any problems with his back.

"Well, you could hardly walk a moment ago." Ginny explained.

Harry waved them off: "No, no, I never had problems with my back, I just had a waxing strip stuck attached to my testicals, and the pain was a bitch! I must have ripped it off, walking up the stairs!"

He followed Hermione into the bathroom, ignoring the dumbstruck expressions of the three people occupying his couch.

"Okay, let me see!" Hermione spun to face Harry as soon as he had closed the door.

"See what?" Harry asked, fearing he already knew the answer.

Hermione confirmed his suspicions: "well, the waxing strip, of course!"

"I'm not going to pull my pants down in front of you" Harry squeaked, loud enough to be heard outside the bathroom.

"I didn't ask you to strip, mate, I asked you for the waxing strip!" Hermione explained as if she was talking to a five year old.

She got comfortable on the closed toilet seat, and put her head between her hands. She ogled Harry from between her fingers. "You said it came off."

"Oh!" Harry replied intelligently, and started fumbling around his boxers. A few moments later, he held something that resembled a two dimensional cuddly toy in his hand. Hermione made a face. "This is disgusting!"

"Well, you wanted to see it." Harry pointed out.

"I did indeed," Hermione replied, than added: "though I really don't know what I was thinking!"

Harry shrugged his shoulders. He couldn't answer that question for her either. He was just about to throw the strip in the bin, when Hermione stopped him, laughing loud and hard.

"Harry, your pubes are ginger!" She howled with tears, snot and salvia running down her face at the same time. She stumbled on the floor, and hammered her fists on the ground. "Ginger!" She exclaimed once again.

Harry hated being laughed at. He decided to give the waxing strip a closer inspection. There was nothing ginger at all. Just a nice mahogany brown. Hermione must be colour-blind.

After a while they returned to the living room. Mr and Mrs Potter looked at them with wide eyes, unreadable expressions on their faces, while Ginny was fifty shades of red. Embarrassment or anger, Harry didn't know. He wasn't in a mood to find out, either. 'Let Hermione deal with it,' he thought, and without a word, shuffled back into the bathroom, where he tried to remove his sticky boxers from of his crack. A waxy reminder had glued them to his cheeks.

Harry decided that a shower was well deserved.

He stood under the hot spray for a very well deserved amount of time (global warning be damned), rubbing and scrubbing his testicles, that were getting more sore by the second, but the sticky substance wouldn't come off. Harry was afraid that his ultra sensitive body wash just didn't have the power to win a war against the glue-like wax. Unfortunately, neither did his ultra sensitive anti dandruff hair shampoo.

What to do, what to do?

Harry looked around his bathroom, trying to find an inspiration, when his eyes landed on a small beauty bag, that was sitting underneath the sink. It was shiny, red and sparkly, and read 'Team Edward' (whatever that meant) in sparkly letters on the front. 'Probably Ginny's,' he thought while searching for a Hulk-like body wash, or something similar. Women waxed their legs and arms and everything else the entire time, didn't they? So therefore their products had to be good enough to wash wax stains off of the skin, Harry assumed.

He was lucky, and found a bar of scented soap. The smell hit his nose, but that could only mean it was chemically advanced enough for his purposes.

The party had gone downhill after he had returned from his shower. His parents were gone, and Ginny stormed off as soon as she caught sight of him, a menacing look on her face, threatening him about "talking about all of that later".

"She will have calmed down by then," promised Hermione. Harry nodded. He believed her. She had known Ginny for much longer than he did. He had had enough to worry about anyway. His brain couldn't stomach anything else.

"Fair enough," he mumbled. "I don't feel like talking anyway."

Hermione nodded and grinned like the Cheshire Cat.

"What's up?" Harry asked. "You look like you're on drugs."

Hermione's grin got even wider. It almost split her head into two. "No, my friend. Not enough drugs... yet"

She wiggled her eyebrows, and pulled a slightly dishevelled spliff out of her beaded bag. Harry quirked an eyebrow. He thought they'd smoked everything earlier, but didn't complain.

A few moments later, they were relaxing on Harry's bed.

"That was a fantastic party," Hermione mused. She must have changed positions, because her voice was coming from the other end of the room.

"If you think so," Harry replied, being far from agreeing with her. Though he wanted to reconcile, he regretted having invited his parents to the party. They surely knew how to kill the mood.

"Of course," he heard Hermione say. "Your parents wore those funny, grumpy faces, you were dancing around them on eggshells, and everyone was just completely awkward," she laughed.

Harry chuckled. "When you put it like that... it was a hilarious disaster, wasn't it?"

Hermione started laughing. "But the best part was the expression on your parents faces after you told them about the waxing strip. I was afraid I would have to help them looking for their eyeballs on the floor, the way their eyes bulged out of their heads."

Harry couldn't help but laughing with her, though this wasn't really his favourite memory of the party. "I guess so," he said vaguely. "But I don't really look forward to facing them again. That will probably be ten times more awkward then the party"

Hermione sighed: "I know. I should be comforting you, telling you it wasn't bad, telling you the next time you spend with your parents will be okay, telling you there is nothing to feel awkward about, but honestly, that would be a lie."

Suddenly Harry felt some movement to his right. It felt like someone kicking him. He stretched out his arm to feel another body lying next to him. Hermione was there, snoring quite peacefully.

Harry scratched his head. If Hermione was fast asleep, who had he just been talking to? Carefully, he opened his eyes and saw a small figure. It was male with short blonde hair, feet clad in ugg boots. Draco!

It wasn't that Harry was expecting to wake up to a fully cooked breakfast in the morning, or even have a cup of steaming hot coffee brought to his bed, but waking up, while being cocooned into a warm blanket would have been wonderful.

Instead he was woken up by shrill shouting. Ever so slightly, he opened his eyes.

Hermione stood, next to the bed, her head bright red and her hair a haystack. In he hand she held a bar of soap. Harry recognised it immediately, It was the one he had used last night. On top of the soap bar sat a long, reddish brown pubic hair.

Harry looked at his friend sheepishly: "Sorry?" he said and tried to hide underneath the bed sheet.

Apparently, his 'sorry' was not good enough, as Hermione proceeded to throw his trainers, and a pair of trousers at him. In between her shouting, he managed to make out a couple of words: "Harry,... idiot,... drug store,... new,... buy,... NOW!"

Without another word, he stepped into his clothes and put on his jacket, then hurriedly left the building. Fortunately Boots was already open.

Harry entered the shop with a dreadful feeling in his found a few soap bars, and sniffled on each of them to get the one with the right scent.

It turned out that all of them managed to hurt his nose, so Harry assumed it didn't really matter which one he got. Purple seemed to be quite a good colour for Hermione, he thought, and went with this particular bar.

He paid for it, then run back to his flat, hoping that Hermione would have calmed down in the meantime.

When he entered, Hermione sat cross legged on his bed, drinking a cup of coffee, and watching some morning show on the television.

"I hope this is the right one" he said, when he handed her his purchase.

Hermione grabbed it with a nod, and then disappeared into the bathroom.

She showered long enough to use up all hot water, but Harry didn't have the guts to complain. He just hoped that the dragon currently occupying his kitchen, had transformed back into Hermione when he was done. Honestly, he already had apologised and bought her a new soap. What else was there to do?

Fortunately for him, Hermione's mood was much better when he stepped into the small kitchen. She had even cooked breakfast. Harry's stomach grumbled, and couldn't wait to dig in.

Just as he had his third bite of sausage, he caught Hermione looking at him funnily.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"I just wanted to know, whom were you talking to last night?"

"No one," Harry replied. He could hardly tell his friend that he had had a conversation with a hallucination of Draco.

Harry's thoughts just stopped right there. He had had a proper conversation with Draco hadn't he? After three joints...

So perhaps alcohol wasn't the best solution, but if he could get his hands on a pack of weed, he would be able to ask for him permission to publish the song.

Harry could hardly keep the grin from his face.

Hermione waved her hand in front of his face. "Welcome back to earth, mate! You were lost in space for a moment" she said. "Are you alright?"

"Better than alright actually. I'm funfuckingtastic" Harry replied, grinning. Hermione eyed him suspiciously. "You haven't answered my question" she remarked.

"Which question?" Harry decided to play stupid for the sake of not knowing what to answer.

"I was asking whom you talked to last night" she repeated. Harry looked like he was confused for a moment. "Me? Talking? I don't remember any conversation. Maybe I talk in my sleep? I actually used to do that quite a lot. You can ask my mum." Just as the words left his mouth, Harry knew that he had said too much. Wasn't rambling always a sign of lying? Harry hoped that Hermione didn't know that.

No such luck.

Her eyebrow was raised high enough to disappear behind her hairline.

Harry recalled having a similar conversation with Draco. They were discussing the most believable ways to call in sick at work, and Draco told him that it was best just to tell the truth. Not the entire truth of course, just the abridged version.

Instead of calling in sick, because H&M is launching their newest designer collection, and it is important to be first in line, he'd call to let them know that he had an erratic heartbeat, was covered in cold sweat, and wanted to make sure to he was first in line to do something about it.

As far as Harry knew, it had always worked.

He tried to use the same strategy. "I'm not really sure, Hermione. I guess I was still a bit drugged up when we went to bed, and was sure I heard you answering." He let out an awkward laugh.

Hermione looked very solemn all of a sudden. "I do apologise Harry. I didn't realise that the stuff was that strong, otherwise I wouldn't have bought it. I really didn't mean for you to space out that much. I promise, I won't do it again"

'Noooooo!" Harry screamed loudly in his head. He needed that stuff again. He had to talk to Draco! Just once!

"I don't think it was that strong, just that I didn't smoke anything for such a long time." he scratched his head. "I think the next time would be less... problematic" He looked at his friends with puppy eyes. "It wasn't bad at all anyway. I mean, I had quite a good chat with you, you know. I think we should do it again. Or even better. I'll just try something by myself. Just to build up resistance." Harry smiled inwardly. That had been brilliant!

Unfortunately, Hermione didn't seem to be convinced. In fact, she starred at him with a shocked expression. "You want to take some drugs - here by yourself - with no one around to build up resistance? Harry, are you an idiot?"

He obviously was.


	12. Chapter 12

**AN: Here is the next chapter. I have also enabled guest reviews, so please tell me what you think**

Different Coloured Masks

A couple of weeks later, everything seemed to be back to ordinary. Harry had had his disciplinary hearing at work - and was lucky enough to escape with a verbal warning.

Harry finally found time to send an email to Ms Feller, Frances - as she asked him to call her, with a couple of songs attached, 'Kicking cotton balls' included. 'His' Draco was swooned by the fact that he wrote a song for him and, could not have been any happier to have it officially released. Gryffindor records had now taken the video off youtube, as they held now the copyright. Harry didn't mind.

He regularly met up with Hermione and Ron, and it seemed that his two friends were getting cozy. Harry was happy for them. They would be great together, he was sure of that.

His own love life was a less promising; Ginny seemed to have disappeared since the fiasco on his party, but the lack of interest in the relationship was mutual. It was truly better that way.

Harry was sitting on the tube, on his way home after a tiring morning shift. He just wanted to crash on his couch, TV remote in his hand, some stupid reality show on the screen, and a spliff.

He kept on promising himself that the next one was going to be his last, and he would say his final goodbye to Draco. He knew very well that it wasn't really Draco he was talking to, but a mere fragment of his imagination. But he didn't feel ready to let go yet.

Harry also realised that hallucinating was not quite considered heathly, and that he should see a doctor about it. He just wasn't ready.

Harry missed his tube stop again. It was the third time in a row, and the approximate eighth time this month. And it was only the middle of March. Harry shook his head at his own stupidness. Determined, to pay more attention the next time, he started walking home.

The Envelope that had been put through is post box was thick and heavy. It was made from stark white paper, that seemed to be of the expensive kind. A logo, that looked like a lion wearing headphones was imprinted. Harry's heart started to beat louder. That letter would tell him whether Gryffindor wanted to work with him.

Harry decided that he needed a cigarette.

Te smoke, calmed his nerves a bit, yet he still felt too anxious to open his letter. He lit up a second fag, than helped himself to another cup of coffee. Taking a deep breath, he sat down at his kitchen table, the letter in his hands. With shaking fingers he ripped it open, and found a big number of documents inside, accompanied by a five paragraph letter from Frances, congratulating him.

They. Wanted. To. Work. With. Him.

He was in! He was really in! They wanted to publish his song! HIS song, playing on the radio, selling records, concerts, tours, the full programme! His dream was about to come true!

Harry couldn't believe it! Practising six degrees of goldfish impressions, this moment felt just too surreal to wrap his head around!

"Oh my God oh my god oh my god!" He sat there, chanting until his voice got sore. This was just unbelievable!

He felt a sudden urge to jump up, and run around his flat in an awkward pattern, that resembled the victory dance of a hippo-frog-hybrid.

He turned every surface in search for a pen to sign the contract and send it back straight away.

Fate didn't quite favour him, and no pen was turning up, no matter how hard he looked. Harry didn't let this affect his mood. He donned his jacket, and flew down the four flights of stairs to the stationary shop on the other side of the road. If a pen was what he needed, a pen was what he would get.

The shop on the other side of the street was closed. Harry checked his watch. It was only four in the afternoon, a rather unusual time for a shop not to be open on a busy street like this one. Harry decided not to worry, and hurried farther down the road towards Tesco's. They sold stationary too.

The selection at Tesco's wasn't the best, or perhaps Harry was just not looking properly, but the only pen he found was a sparkly pink 'my little pony' pen. But as signing the document was the single most important thing on Harry's mind, he didn't care, and paid an entire two pound fifty for this writing device.

With the same speed he hurried back home to sign his life away.

Harry cleaned his kitchen table of all its mess, then put the paper down, his pen ready for attack, but just before the ball-pin hit the paper, Harry pulled his hand away.

"Wait!"

A voice told him loud and clear in his head. For some reasons it sounded a lot like that of his father.

The voice continued. "Never sign a contract without having someone read over it. At the end, a lawyer is always cheaper then a lawsuit."

Harry kind of knew that. He didn't need his dad to tell him something that was quite common sense. Heck, he had demanded getting his contract checked by a lawyer when he met up with Frances Feller at the hotel!

Finally, Harry knew why his dad kept on insisting of repeating things over and over: that he could remember them when necessity arose.

Harry put the contract aside (he slid it neatly back into the envelope, and stored it at the bottom of his sock drawer), then started his computer. After he waited for the usual eternity to load, he googled law advisors.

He wasn't surprised that it came up with a never ending amount of pages. Immigration law, crime law, laws that he had never heard about, more immigration laws, more of everything... With every page he skimmed, he got more confused at the right person to contact. He had never had to deal with a lawyer his entire life.

He tried to specify his search a bit more and added 'contracts' to the search bar, but it only limited his search slightly. There were still too many to chose from. Maybe he was better advised to do an image search instead, and pick the one with the smartest looking office? After all, the ones with the mahogany desks were the best, right?

Unfortunately for Harry, he didn't find any mahogany desks on the image search. There were mainly portrait shots of various fifty year old men with salt and pepper hair, and different coloured ties.

After a while he found one that looked promising, and clicked on the picture to be redirected to this lawyer's webpage. It was very professional looking, with a smart looking header, and a silver and dark blue theme. On the website, he found photographs of all lawyers, and legal advisors that were working for the company. Funnily, none of them was a fifty year old man with salt and pepper hair wearing a navy tie with funky stripes. That was a good sign. Harry clicked on the picture of one woman.

Legal Advisor

Katie Bell

contract & employment law

Yup, that was her! That was his lawyer, Harry decided. He looked up the phone number, and called immediately. The secretary on the other line was a bit rude, but nevertheless booked him an appointment for the second of April. At first Harry snorted at the long wait, but the secretary pointed out that this was a rather short waiting period for a lawyer. Harry was a bit surprised. From the list he'd seen on google a moment ago, one would think that every second person in London had a career in law! Anyway, he agreed to the appointment.

A two weeks waiting time! Harry wasn't too happy about that. He just realised how much he was actually craving this change in career, and felt like he couldn't wait for another second. But well, Draco had always nagged him for being too impatient. This was the time to practice patience.

Harry decided against telling anyone about the contract. He wanted to ensure there was nothing dodgy about it first. Sure, Gryffindor was a superb company with many great artists under their wings, but that didn't automatically mean they would make it easy for an inexperienced nobody.

He jotted the date and time of his appointment on piece of paper. After second thought, he placed a second reminder on a post-it on his fridge and another one on his bathroom mirror.

The sun was shining outside, and most flowers stood proudly, waving their petals in a light breeze. Trees were blossoming and the grass in the parks looked greener then ever. Birds were happily chirping somewhere close by and the entire city of London seemed to be in an uplifted spirit.

Harry decided to join the contagious vibe, and packed some snacks, drinks, a blanket and his guitar and hopped onto the the tube to Hyde Park.

It was still a bit chilly, but that didn't bother him. Wrapped up in a blanket, and with his Ray Bans on his nose, the guitar and was completely forgotten, as he listened to the random chatter surrounding him.

He really should do that more often. Go out, relax, with nothing on his mind. He wondered how he could have ended up being such a hermit, that looked himself into his flat whenever possible. He was just about making a promise to himself to go out more often, when a memory of Draco teasing him came to his mind. Previous spring, he had made exactly the same promise. Draco had laughed and called him Harr-mit. Harry had rolled his eyes, but joined the laughing. "I guess I am," he had said, shaking his head.

Whenever they went to Hyde Park together, they would always sit under the same tree. When he went to the park today, Harry had subconsciously chosen the exactly same spot. Even the small H+D, carved into the side of the bridge was clearly visible from where he was sitting. Draco had put it there after a couple of summer evening picnics because it had felt 'right'.

Harry sighed. Ever since that day, he had been following Draco like a lovesick puppy. Until the Victor Krum incident

Harry opened his can of beer and took a deep sip. He didn't want to think about that now, but couldn't help wondering what would have happened, if he had found the balls to asked Draco out. Would he still be alive?

Harry let his mind drift to how Draco's life changed that night.

Gossip papers had called him a 'socialite', football fans named him a 'queer slut' and everyone who recognised him on the street, shook their head in disapproval.

If Draco was offended it any way, he never showed. Quite the contrary, it looked like he thought it funny, and - in true socialite fashion - entered the red carpets of the city, and amazed reporters with the fact that there was actually a brain somewhere inside his blonde head.

Now, Harry wondered how true that was. Perhaps Draco had been broken, and hid it underneath his every smirking mask, that he, as his best friend should have noticed.

Harry shook his head, trying to get the miserable thoughts out of there. He guessed that he had to learn to live with this feeling of guilt. He opened another cans of beer, and emptied half of it into his mouth. The rest spilled down the corners of his mouth, and drooled onto his shirt. He wasn't bothered. He hardly even noticed.

Harry continued to lie there for a while, memories of Draco circling around his mind.

There was this one time they went skinny dipping in the serpentine...

It had been a hot summer's day, that was spent sitting in front of the opened fridge door, complaining about the heat while eating ice cream and sucking ice cubes. They hadn't been able to afford air conditioning at the time.

When the sun dawned, and the air cooled enough to be called breathable, Harry joked that he wanted to find a puddle to jump in, no matter if it was the the dirty Thames, or a fish tank full of hungry piranha's.

Draco had sighed and nodded, telling him that he would join instantly, and had another sip of mojito.

Two hours later, they found themselves climbing over the fences to Hyde Park, giggling like children, and chasing each other down to the serpentine. They managed to get rid of their clothes on the way, then jumped into the cool water with a loud splash, probably scaring some swans to death.

Harry couldn't help but giggle at the memory.

They had splashed around for a short time, when a park keeper started shouting that he would call the police.

Harry had jumped out of the water, and hurried to find their sprayed clothing as if he was scared for his life.

With shaking fingers he fumbled his shirt over his head, realising that he put itthe wrong way round, but too afraid to care. Draco couldn't stop laughing, and made a show of putting his pants back on while waggling his backside much more than necessary. His gaze was on the uniformed man, who stood there, gaping like a goldfish. When Draco was done, he swayed his hips, and swaggered to the exit, were Harry already stood waiting. He had made a run for it as soon as his pants were high enough to move is legs.

Seeing him standing there, Draco bent over laughing: "Scared, Potter?"

Harry huffed in reply, and mumbled something unintelligible. Together they trotted back home, not without picking up some bits and pieces from a Sainsbury's on the way, then climbed up onto the roof of their flat and had a midnight picnic under the stars.

A sad smile played around Harry's lips. The night had been so perfect, so romantic (though the feelings were one sided). If there was a way turn back time, he would have stayed in that moment forever.

In a reflex, he reached for his guitar, and started to play a tune.

The chords erupting from Lily were beautiful. They were sad, warm and deep, a bluesy song with some little twists here and there, completely draining the instrument.

He was so lost in his little world that he never noticed the people around him, sharpening their ears, stopping their chatter to listen to him.

In an area like Hyde Park, where one talented musician or another showed off their skill ever so often that it went mostly ignored, this was remarkable.

Soon, there was a crowd gathering around Harry, listening intensely and even trying to lower their breathing as not to disturb the beautiful music. Meanwhile, the artist himself had his head stuck in some memories, and was completely oblivious.

It was a talent he was born with. Whenever he was playing an instrument, even as a little boy, he was getting carried away. He would forget where he was, and who he was. Only the melody in his head mattered. His mum used to joke that he could fiddle an earthquake away, even from within its centre.

After a while, the melody of wasn't enough. Lyrics formed in his mind, as cryptic and bluesy as the song. In his deep and raspy voice Harry sang about being lonely, and his struggle to continue his life. The constant feeling of being misunderstood.

"My former solitude is now suffocating me,  
I feel trapped in a place where I used to be free.

Everyday I'm wearing a different coloured mask,  
Bright and fancy, with no one able to recognise  
The many lies I used to glue them to my face.

I feel like I'm trapped in a broken time-machine,  
A voyeur of my own black and white memories,  
Blind to the colours surrounding me

I used to live my life on fast forward,  
but I stumbled, and ended up trapped on rewind"

He didn't bother with making sense, rhyming words, or pronunciation.

The crowd grew bigger. Behind people in summer dresses stood a few pinstriped suits and people in bright yellow oversized t-shirts that read 'The Big London Tour.'

Squeezed in between all of them was a group of children, all dressed in dark blue polo shirts with the logo of their school stitched onto the breast pocket. Left and right to them were three adults in similar outfits, looking mesmerised by the beautiful music.

As young as the kids were, first years or second years, none of them caused trouble. They stood and listened to the music, their mouths gaped open.

One little girl with ginger pigtails and round glasses started clapping her hands to the rhythm, and was soon joined by her classmates. Other people started to join, and soon the crowd complimented the song with a steady, matching rhythm.

Harry finished his song, and was just about to put his guitar in its case, when he discovered the people surrounding him. He immediately blushed, and stumbled over some incoherent words before he gathered his belongings, and legged it out of the park as if an axe murderer was hot on his heels.

Harry went over the memory a million times. Shocked by the many people, Harry had almost dropped his guitar case, but after discovering that they all just wanted to encourage him to play another song, he felt quite pleased and even proud of was just about to comply, when...

"Harry, I loved the song. Please play some more."

It was faint, quiet and he didn't see his face in the crowd. No blonde hair, no ugg boots, but it had been enough. He had to get out of there.

It was one thing to sit at home, roll a spliff, and wait for the hallucinations to kick in, but a completely different story when said hallucination turned up randomly while he was sober.

It had scared him. Terrified him!

He needed a cigarette and a drink! He needed to forget this had ever happened! Harry tried to convince himself that there was no hallucination to begin with. It was just a trick his mind had played on him. That was a reasonable explanation, and it eased his nerves. Nevertheless, he promised himself not to touch any marihuana in near future.

Two more stops to go. They felt like an awfully long time, squeezed into the small carriage with too many people, pressed against another. It was oddly strange that when relying on public transportation, you end up having more physical contact with complete strangers than friends or family.

Harry shuddered. He had never really thought about that before, but now that he did, it grossed him out. He could feel them sweating against him, passing on germs from their bodies to his, touching, squeezing, pressing.

Harry had to count to ten with eyes closed. He couldn't wait for his stop.

He felt like the walls were closing in on him. Was it just his eyes or did the carriage significantly shrink in size all while slowing down in speed?

Sweat started to drip down his back, and his breathing got shallow.

Where did all the air disappear to?

Harry started to cough. He was going to suffocate! Or squeezed to death! Black spots had started to appear in front of his eyes.

At the next stop, he escaped!

He left the station as quickly as possible, and found refugee in one of the almost completely empty side streets.

Harry bent over. His breath came out in short puffs, and his lungs felt as if they were carrying heavy stones dripped in acid.

He was shaking now. What had happened to him?

Slowly, Harry started to walk home and hoped that the fresh air would clean his head.

Once Harry had walked through his door, he dove for the weed that was hiding between his salt and pepper shakers, and a tin of Italian herbs, crumbled it and threw it into his bin. Then he got rid of the almost empty bottle of JD on his bedside table, the two cans of fosters in his fridge, and even threw away some left over white wine that had been living inside the fridge for only god knows how long.

After he was done, he sat down on his bed and starred at the wall across. Refusing to leave the house for the reminder of they day, he ordered a pizza and was now waiting for it to be delivered. In front of him was a selection of DVD's that he hadn't watched in some time. No horror films and action thrillers were part of the selection.

Probably something funny and stupid was the best for now, so he put Austin Powers and American Pie on top of the 'approval' pile. Then, no longer in the mood for solitude, he decided to phone up Hermione and Ron to ask if they wanted to come over.

Ron was working a late shift, but promised to pop down a bit later, and Hermione did not answer her phone. Harry thought that she was probably with a customer, and could hardy stop in the middle of a tattoo because her phone went of, so he left her a voicemail.

When his phone started to ring a bit later, he was sure that it was her, and didn't check the name on the display. "Hi Mione," he slurred into the device, "fancy coming over and watch some hilarious nineties films, that are stupid as shit?"

"Harry?" He heard a voice on the other line. "Is that you?"

"Yeah, its me," he replied in a puzzled tone.

"Hi, erm, how are you?" Hermione asked nervously.

"Hermione, what's up?" He laughed at his friend, while making himself more comfortable on the couch.

There was a pause on the other line.

"Mione?" Harry asked, now truly wondering if his friend was okay.

"Erm no Harry," the voice broke of, as if not knowing what to say next.

Harry laughed nervously: "okay Mione, how hard did you hit your head?"

"I'm not Hermione" the voice said. "Its me, Lav"

Something hard and big just got stuck in his throat, and Harry tried to swallow. He definitely hadn't expected Lav to give him a call. How did she even get his number? And what did she want from him? Did she expect him to reconcile their friendship, now that Draco was gone? Honestly, how stupid did Lav think he was?

"I'm calling from Hermione's. I'm in her studio, getting a fairy tattooed on my left shoulder." Harry had to roll his eyes at that. Former punk - or 'goth' girl Lav with a cheesy fairy hadn't Hermione refused her? Then he remembered that they were friends. Of course she would not kick her out of her studio, and of course she would let her play with her phone.

Suddenly, he didn't want to see Hermione any longer. It was probably better to watch a film all by himself.

Harry started to regret getting rid of his alcohol earlier. A drink was what he needed now.

He hung up on Lav without muttering another word, and ran back to his kitchen and took the weed out of his bin.

It was only to calm his nerves, he told himself. Then he would never ever touch that stuff again. And to be extra safe, he wouldn't leave his flat tomorrow or see anyone, before he was certain that his system was 100 per cent drug free.


	13. Chapter 13

**AN: And here is the next part. I'd love to hear what you think**

Red Memorial Maple

Harry woke up to the constant ringing of his doorbell. Already in a bad mood, he opened his eyes, and carried his heavy limbs towards the noise. Whoever stood outside, was in for a mouthful.

"Don't even think about it!" insisted a sharp voice from outside.

Harry grunted and pulled at the security lock.

"Oh my god, Harry!" Hermione shouted. "You're still in your pyjamas? You better hurry up now. You have five minutes!" She made herself comfortable on Harry's kitchen counter, and looked at him expectantly. Ron helped himself to a glass of water.

Defeated, Harry trotted into his bathroom to change into his tracksuit.

They had this new routine for a week now. Every other day at six o'clock in the morning, Ron and Hermione would ring him out of his bed to take him for a run in Regent's Park. Apparently it was supposed to make him feel better, but his smoker's lung disagreed. He was quite certain that this new jogging exercise wasn't only for his benefit. Hermione wanted to loose weight, and Ron wanted Hermione. Harry didn't want anything, but also lacked the balls to complain.

Harry was the worst runner out of the three of them. He was under the impression that this was exactly the reason why Hermione liked to drag him along. It wasn't as if Hermione was not a lot fitter than him, but she had stopped smoking a while ago, and didn't have to pause every other minute to cough her lungs out. In fact, she kept looking at him, rolling her eyes and huffing, as if she wanted every bypasser to know, that she was a very good runner, but had to stop constantly because of her suffering friend.

Ron never waited for them. He would run his part, then wait for them in their usual Starbucks, already having ordered three cups of coffee.

There was really no need to mention that Hermione and Harry hadn't had a hot coffee in quite a while.

Hermione was already improving her fitness levels since the beginning of the week, but Harry did quite the opposite. He got slower every time they ran, and demanded more and longer breaks. He couldn't even remember a time in his life where he had not been completely out of breath.

The only problem was, that he couldn't explain the reason for it.

He stayed true to his word, and hadn't smoked weed or drunk anything since that awkward phone call with Lav a fortnight ago. Hermione had profusely apologised, not having known that her friend had taken her phone. Apparently she hadn't spoken to Lav since.

During their first run, Harry had heard Draco's voice very vaguely, cheering him on. He had tried to convince himself that he was just imagining things, but when they went running for the second time, he could have sworn that he saw the blonde jogging next to him for a brief moment. This had distracted him enough to stumble over his own feet, have a coughing fit, and a face that put a ripe tomato to shame. Hermione had allowed him to casually walk for the rest of the distance.

During their third run, Harry knew for sure that he had seen Draco. The blonde was standing about ten feet away, jumping up and down and cheering him on, then disappeared again, only to turn up again after the next turn.

Not that he wanted to admit it, but Harry was scared. Something was terribly wrong with his brain, and he had no idea how to fix it. He still hoped that it would pass with time, if he remained abstinent from certain substances.

"Harry, helloooo? Are you somewhere in here?" Hermione waived her hand in front of his face. "Mate, you've spaced out for a moment, I was seriously getting worried," Hermione raised her eyebrow, as Harry returned back to reality.

"I'm perfectly fine. Just a bit tired, that's all," Harry quickly replied.

Hermionejust laughed: "you're such a lazy bum, Harry. Look. Even the sun's getting up!"

Harry rolled his eyes. The air was chilly and damp, and a grey mist hang in the air like a rain cloud. The sun might have been bright enough to illuminate their surroundings, but it was far from being a sunny morning.

Even Ron huffed at her statement.

Hermione, not bothered by her friends' disagreement, grabbed both of the guys by their elbows and dragged them along. "Come on, you know you enjoy jogging, I shouldn't have to force you every time!"

Harry tried to make a happy face. There was no point arguing with Hermione.

The run itself was not too bad, Harry had to admit. He discovered that he enjoyed being outside and spending time with his friends. Today he managed to jog for just over five minutes straight. Even Hermione was proud of him!

Harry got more relaxed with every yard he ran. So far, there had been no Draco disturbances, and they were already half way at Starbucks.

Hermione was sweating next to him, happily chatting about the weight she had already lost with a diet, that Harry should try too.

Jogging aside, she also attended zumba classes with a girl named Hannah Abbot, he had never heard of, but he had never heard of something called zumba either.

He pictured it a bit like pole dancing without a pole and was quite relieved that Hermione requested that he joined.

"Harry, you're always so awfully quiet when we're running, and you have this weird expression on your face. Do you want people to thing that I'm running with a defect robot?" Hermione sounded a bit out of breath. Harry came to a sudden stop. Running and talking at the same time was too much multitasking. "Aw-fuh-lly - quiet?" He groaned. "I'm al-most dy-ing he-re! I don't ha-ve the en-er-gy to ta-lk while slow-ly kil-ling my-self!"

Hermione mumbled something about exaggerating, but Harry had been serious. He had to keep his mouth shut, otherwise his lungs would fall out! Plus, he had collected a middle sized family of blisters at his heel, which did nothing to improve his mood. He was just about to throw this at Hermione, but decided against it. There was no need for her to know that he got blisters and she didn't!

Harry's mood improved a lot when they reached the cafe. Ron, as usual, was sitting at a big, arched window. Harry couldn't wait to sit down to and rest his aching legs. He fell into the seat, and closed his eyes for a couple of minutes. His coffee would be cold by now anyway, so a few minutes more didn't matter.

At the sound of laughter, his eyes opened and his head jerked up. There wasn't supposed to be any laughter coming from his right. There was no one sitting there. Harry turned his head, to find the space occupied by none other than Draco, who was holding a cup himself. It was steaming hot. "I was so much faster than you, lazy-bum," he teased.

"You're not here. You cannot be here!" Harry whispered through clenched teeth, throwing a glance at Ron and Hermione. He was relieved to find them in a deep conversation.

Draco made a face. "You don't want to see me? Don't you like me any longer" His expression was so sad that it almost broke Harry's heart to look at it. "Of course not," he whispered, "but it's just not the right time... Please!"

"You don't miss me any longer! Draco whined, his face scrunched up like that of a toddler throwing a tantrum.

"Draco, no..." Harry begged. "Please, don't be like that," Draco never was like that when he was alive.

"Look at me." He tried, but Draco merely hhumphed in his direction, and crossed his arms, a big fat tear was rolling down his cheek.

Harry decided to ignore Draco, and was immeditaly confronted with the confused stare of both of his friends. "Harry, whom where you talking too?" Hermione asked, lines of worry creasing her forehead. Ron, sitting next to her, held a similar expression.

Harry scratched the back of his head, then played with his coffee cup for a moment. "Nothing, nothing," he quickly replied. Too quickly, he realised, as he spotted Hermione's once again raised eyebrow. He shrugged his shoulders. "I was only talking to myself. I do that once in a while. Probably a side effect from living all by myself for too long." He forced a fake laughter, but his friends still didn't look convinced

They didn't talk much afterwards. Ron was focused on something outside. With stiff posture and shoulders, he looked like an abandoned puppy waiting for his owner. His eyes were glazed, as if he forgot to blink for some time. He held his coffee cup midway to his mouth, and Harry wondered if he even had a sip.

Harry turned his head towards Hermione, whose expression looked just as spaced out. Instead of a place far far away, she seemed to be lost in herself. She had lost some weight lately, but it didn't seem to make her look any happier or more confident. Hard lines graced her face, especially around her lips.

Harry was wondering if it was possible to loose weight in your lips. He often enough heard woman complaining that they had lost all their weight in the wrong places.

Hermione's eyes looked a bit dull. Not that he'd ever paid a lot of attention towards his friend's eyes, but he kind of remembered them to be sparkly, like two candles dancing in a storm. Winding, flittering like snakes, enjoying life like there was no tomorrow. - A bit like Draco's eyes, but Harry didn't want to go there. He threw a – hopefully – non-suspicious glance to his right. The spot was vacated. Harry couldn't help to release a breath that he didn't know he was holding. Normal-ness. That was what he needed.

Harry's stomach clenched, like a fist, closing and opening around it. Then he broke out in a sweat, the droplets wandering across his forehead, and his arms like an army of poisonous ants. He breathed heavily, than Draco's face came back into his mind. Did he see warning signs in his friend that he should have been able to see in the once most important person in his life? Did Hermione need his help? She appeared to be normal as ever. There had been no drastic changes in her personality, as if you would expect from a person with severe issues.

Harry thought harder. Perhaps a person that went through all those drastic changes already was to far gone to be helped. Maybe it needed noticing minor things. Perhaps trying to 'help' Harry sort out his life was in reality just a cry for help?

Harry promised himself to keep an eye on Hermione.

Harry finally got to enjoy his cup of coffee. He closed his eyes and took a mouthful. The beverage was as cold as expected, but it didn't matter. Coffee tasted good no matter the temperature.

He played with a thread on his track pants. If he wasn't careful, he would have a hole in his trousers soon.

He watched the two baristas buzzing between the coffee machines and the customers, always having a smile on their faces. A lot of people, dressed in suits and polished shoes were rushing in for their morning fix of caffeine.

Harry eyed all of them with interest. They looked important, talked important with barking voices, and had important expressions on their faces, that they used to look down on everyone else.

One woman with her hair in a tight up-do and red lipstick turned around for a short moment, and locked eyes with Harry. With her mouth drawn into a thin line, she looked at the grass stains of his trousers, the stubble on his face, and the exploded hamster on his head that was his current hairstyle. The woman shook her head, huffed, and then went her way. Harry couldn't help but grin. It had been so obvious that she thought of herself as something better. Good position, good money, good life. But Harry had seen the hard lines marring her face. The way she hastily gulped down the steaming hot beverage, as if it would just disappear in two minutes. How she had kept her phone pressed between her ear and her shoulder in some sort of Hunchback-of-Notre-Dame impression. How could people who defined themselves though by their job title ever get the idea that they had a good life?

Since when was being a robot a fashion statement?

But then, Harry had never really gotten a grip on the human race.

He turned back to his coffee cup, which was empty now. He hadn't even realised that he finished it. He pulled a few coins from various pockets of his outfit and contemplated whether that should be enough for another cup or not.

"Come on guy, lets go! I'm falling asleep here," he heard Hermione complaining. She stood up and made some weird-looking stretching movements. 'Might as well' Harry thought and joined it. His legs were killing him! His calves and the inside of his thighs were burning. It felt like thousand needles were teasing him, or as if he'd fallen asleep on a sewing machine.

Ron waited until both were done, then jumped out of his seat as smooth as a panther. Harry watched him dancing easily from one leg to the other like he was just about to kick off. Knowing Ron, he could do another two or three laps around the park.

As soon as he said good-bye to Hermione and Ron, both had gone straight to work, Harry pulled out his cigarettes that had been hiding in the inside pocket of his jacket.

He closed his eyes while he enjoyed the flavour, the nicotine filling his lungs, and the smoke that escaped his lips. Cigarettes were heaven! Harry damned that he wasn't allowed any during their morning exercise routine. He would be less grumpy!

But apparently it would counter the effects of the work out. Both of his friends forbade him his beloved cancer sticks.

Somehow, Hermione was even under the impression that he had quit as well.

Harry's phone started to ring. He didn't expect a call, nor did he recognise the number. "Hello?" He asked, not wanting to give his name to some random call-centre-idiot.

"Am I speaking to Mr. Potter?" A polite, yet posh voice was enquiring at the other end of the line.

"Erm, yes. That's me," he confirmed, still wondering who he was talking to.

"Good Morning, Mr. Potter, my name is Rebecca and I'm calling on behalf of Miss Katie Bell, whom you had scheduled an appointment with for today at ten forty five."

With the cold- and goose-bumpy feeling of forgetfulness, Harry had a look at the clock on his mobile. It was eleven sharp! He had forgotten this appointment with the lawyer.

"Shit!" He cursed into the phone. "Dammit, I'm on my way! I'm coming straight down. I guarantee, I'll be there in twenty." He promised, and was just about to hang up.

Rebecca on the other line made a coughing noise. Twice. "Well," she drawled, "thing is, the appointment was scheduled for half an hour, you're already fifteen minutes late, add another twenty to it and you'll be arriving five minutes into the next appointment."

Harry sat down, still in front of his door, cursing the world while sending fifteen prayers to heaven. "Is there nothing you can do?" he asked.

"I can schedule a new appointment for you," Rebecca offered: "I have a spot available on the thirtieth of april, there is a slot at eight am, or we can do the tenth of may at ten forty five again, or, if you prefer, in the afternoon at four thirty.

'no no no no no' Harry cried in his head. He had already waited so long! He couldn't wait another couple of weeks!

"Isn't there anything at all you can do to squeeze me in today, after hours for an extra charge, during lunch, another client, who rescheduled his appointment?" He already knew the answer, if he was honest with himself, but it didn't stop him to add another "Please" to his request.

Rebecca sighed. "Unfortunately, there is nothing that I can do for you at the moment, I'm afraid. The only thing I could think of is putting you through to Miss Bell, and have a brief consultation over the phone. The regular charges would be applicable, as you're already behind the cancelation period."

Harry was relieved. He just needed the lawyer to have quick read over his contract. He might as well just read it over the phone to her.

"Yes, yes please put me through." he all but shouted into the phone, while he was hurrying to get inside of his flat and grab the contract.

After a few seconds of listening to some highly annoying elevator music, a sharp voice picked up the phone. "Good Morning, Mr. Potter There is about ten minutes left of your appointed time. How may I assist you with that?"

The Domina,as he renamed the lawyer, had confirmed that everything was in perfect order with his contract.

Exhausted but happy, Harry put his signature onto the bottom of the page, and put it into a neat A4 sized envelope, then rushed all the way to the post office, so that it would leave the same day.

He wished he could call Hermione or Ron to tell them the good news, but both of them were working. He didn't feel like calling any other friends, as he was still upset with Blaise and Daphne.

A crazy idea formed inside his head. In a temporary rush of insanity, he grabbed his phone and booked an appointment in Hermione's tattoo shop. He would be able to surprise his friend with the good news, and at the same time get a new tattoo. Double good.

At one o'clock he was freshly dressed and showered, and on his way to Hermione. Harry was excited. He felt like he'd swallowed the sun, and ever source of light was now shining out his pores. He heard music playing in his ears, loud enough to shut out the traffic noise of London.

Harry had a grin, wide enough to cut his face into half on his face when he opened the door to the studio, and greeted the receptionist. Fortunately for him it wasn't Ginny. He still hadn't spoken to her, and wanted to keep it that way.

A guy, with more piercings in his face than Harry could count greeted him instead.

Harry took a seat and waited until Hermione's appointment was finished. Grabbing a magazines, he made himself comfortable. Some metal music was blasting through hidden speakers, and the heavy scent of opium was blocking his airways.

Outside, the sun painted the street in a sepia light. Camden was busy and crammed with tourists and locals alike. Every other second someone walked into the studio, either sober or not, and asked for some form of body art. The two piercers on shift were working like hole-punches. Harry wasn't sure if he should be amazed or scared, but decided that if he ever wanted a piercing he would go looking elsewhere.

Finally, Hermione's appointment, a skinny man with salt and pepper hair, who seemed to be some accountant type with a grey tie and suit, left the small tattooing room at the end of the hall. Harry briefly wondered what he'd got, because this guy didn't strike him as the type of person for body art.

Hermione appeared behind him, looking flushed, as if she'd spend the last couple of hours running a marathon. After seeing Mr. Accountant-Poster-Boy off, she spotted him waiting for his turn. "Harry," she greeted with a big grin, "came to visit me?" He got up and shook his head. "I'm your one o'clock appointment!"

Hermione's grin got even wider, if that was possible. "Well, come along then, dude." Harry followed.

Before he could enter, Hermione turned around with a little frown. "Just ignore the mess in here," she said in a too nonchalant to be nonchalant voice. One second later, Harry saw what she was talking about. There was a kitchen roll unwrapped all around the floor, a couple of ink colours were spread around the small working station, and a bin bag was sitting in the middle of the room, the bin itself was turned over, and clustered with more ink and a can of coke. Tissues were wildly spread, as well as an empty bottle of Vaseline. "Wow!" said Harry. "I Guess your previous appointment didn't like his tattoo?" He joked. Hermione shrugged her shoulders, and looked nervous. She didn't manage to look him in the eyes when she answered:."Erm, no... he was fine. The tattoo was fine." Harry crossed his arms, and tabbed his foot. He was not satisfied with the answer, but Hermione busied herself with cleaning the room. "Take a seat," she huffed.

Harry slouched onto the seat, hands folded in his lap. Under different circumstances he would have helped Hermione cleaning up, but she denied him information, so he decided to deny helping.

Hermione rolled her eyes at his requested tattoo of two angel wings with the word 'Draco' in between, and tried to give him other ideas for his memorial tattoo.

The tattooing needle danced across his chest, leaving painful trails of blood and ink behind. Harry clenched his teeth. He had forgotten how painful tattooing was, especially when the piece was colourful, and more than five inches wide. Maybe he should have chosen something smaller than a canadian maple leaf? A daisy petal for example?

Harry sighed. He knew he was being ridiculous, but he couldn't help turning into a baby whenever pain was involved, no matter if it was self inflicted or not. Hermione sensed his distress, and snickered. "Come on, little baby."

Harry rolled his eyes. "You're not the one suffering," he huffed. His friend made a face. The dreaded eyebrow was raised all the way to the hairline again. "I have you know that approximately eighty percent of my body is tattooed. I know quite well how it feels to get some work done - thank you very much!" she said, "something that you, with those tiny little stamps up and down your arms cannot compare with at all."

Harry stared at his arms and then back at his friend. They weren't proper sleeves, but most of the skin was covered in ink. There was nothing small and stamp like about his designs. At least not in his opinion. "Whatever..." Harry replied.

"You know what?" he asked his friend, suddenly remembering why he came here in the first place:."I'm in!"

Hermione looked quite unimpressed. "Well, I would love to congratulate you on that, but I haven't got the slightest clue of what you're talking about?"

"I'm talking about my song. I'm in, I got the contract with Gryffindor!" Harry explained, heaving a hard time to contain his excitement, but jumping up and down on his seat while getting his tattoo didn't seem to be the smartest idea.

Hermione still didn't show the anticipated amount of glee. "Did you have someone look over the contract for you?" She asked. The dreaded eyebrow was once again mocking him. He wanted to shave it off. "I spoke to my lawyer this morning," he drawled, hating that his friend talked to him like he was an idiot.

Hermione, sensing this, rolled her eyes and looked at him. "I'm don't think you're an idiot Harry, but you tend to be a bit of a daydreamer." Harry just wanted to protest, but Hermione stopped him. "Its not a bad thing! You're an artist, you see the beauty of the world through the notes of a song. But the people you're dealing with aren't like that. To them, music is not art, but business. They are drawn to money in a way sharks are drawn to blood. I just don't want to see you getting sucked dry."

Harry carefully smiled, showing that he understood and appreciated her concern, but it was brief enough to make her see that it wasn't necessary, that he knew what he was doing - kind of.

Two hours later, Harry inspected his new tattoo in the mirror. His skin was reddish and swollen, the colours of the tattoo still a bit too bright, but he already loved it.

Suddenly, a second face appeared next to his. "I like it, too!" Draco whisperd.

Shocked, Harry glanced to his right, but no one was standing there. Harry rubbed his eyes, then looked back in the mirror. Draco was still there, smiling at him. Harry couldn't help but smile back. Behind him, he heard Hermione laugh: "I'm glad that you like your tattoo. I haven't seen you smile like this in ages!" She was oblivious to the image of Draco in the mirror. "I do like the tattoo. Thanks Moine," he replied in what he hoped was his normal voice.

"You're welcome," his friend said, while she was cleaning her work station. "Wanna go for a drink? I'm done for the day, and I guess you're upcoming success in the musical world is worth a small celebration!"

Harry liked the idea. "Yeah, I guess so. Why not?" He answered, his eyes still glued on Draco.

"Cool," Hermione's voice chirped from somewhere behind him, "I shall call Ron then. Do you want to invite anyone else? Blaise, Daphne - they'll be happy for you too, you know - or perhaps Ginny?"

Harry looked at her as if she'd suggested inviting Godzilla, Lord Voldemort and Darth Vader to the party. "No thanks," he said in a clipped, dry tone. "Ron and you will do!"

"And what about me?" A voice to his right, soft as a honey blossom, rang. Draco was looking at him with big round eyes. He looked as if he was expecting to be rejected. Harry wondered why. Maybe that was the side of his personality he had missed to see while he was still alive. The reason why he was haunting him?

"Of course you're invited to come too! There is no need to ask" He quickly assured, afraid of seeing more big, fat tears.

Hermione laughed behind him. "Thanks for the special invitation, dude!"

At first Harry didn't understand what she was on about, but a moment later it dawned on him. She could neither see nor hear Draco. "You're welcome," he mumbled.

He glanced again at Draco, who rewarded him with a million watt smile. He grinned back, then pulled a face. Hermione had caught his expression, and looked at him funnily. "What are you doing?" She laughed, obviously thinking that Harry pulled a face at the mirror out of pure giddiness. He shrugged his shoulders. "I guess I'm just a bit overexcited," he said.

Hermione clapped him on the back, "its okay, I'd probably feel the same if I where you."

He wrapped his arms around her and dragged her out of the tattoo studio, "come on, my friend," he said, bowing his head mockingly: "let me escort thee to the pub down the road"

Hermione giggled, "Oh thank you very much, kind sir."

"My Lady!" Harry kissed her hand, then linked their arms, and started walking with a supposedly posh swagger (read: imitated a stork). "Sir!" Hermione screamed in an accent ,posh enough to put the Queen to shame, "would you mind stopping your inept behaviour. Laughing in front of a Lady like a common pauper is quite unheard of!" She had difficulties finishing her own sentence as a waterfall of laughter splurged from her lips. Harry giggled along, "my sincerest apologies, milady. I must shamefully admit that I didn't even consider that my boisterous behaviour would embarrass you in any way." He was almost able to finish his sentence in a solemn voice.

Hermione pulled her chin up: "you're forgiven on this occasion."

Harry couldn't help a giggle. "I must say, milady, that I'm clearly unimpressed with your state of undress. I feel embarrassed being seen in public with someone dressed less appropriate than a scarlet woman."

"But Sir Harry, you're clearly aware that my state of dress is of the latest fashion. And what is that nonsense about scarlet women? That is not an appropriate conversation to have with a lady," she huffed and stuck her nose up. Harry toppled over, laughing.

"But my dear friend, of course I wouldn't talk about such obscene topics in front of a Lady, but since it's only you and me, there is surely no need for such formalities."

Hermione was just about to come up with a good comeback, when someone grabbed her by the waist, and spun her around. "Milady, I hope blasting idiot over there is no wasting your time." Ron had caught on and decided to play along. Hermione looked at Harry, her eyebrows drawn together in disapproval: "There are clearly no well mannered men left in this country. Fortunately, I found this lovely polish gentleman to occupy my time with." Harry laughed.

A moment later, the three of then entered the 'Leaky Cauldron' pub, and ordered a round of black sambucas. "To Harry!" Hermione raised her glass: "England's next Paul McCartney"

Harry rolled his eyes. He had never liked that dude!


	14. Chapter 14

**AN: Aaand the next one :)**  
 **Warning: This chapter includes the probably weirdest lemon in fan fiction history...**  
 **Please let me know what you think**  
 **Due to this chapter, I have changed this story's rating to 'M'.**

Digging Rabbit Holes

Harry was once again lost in the intimidating maze some people might refer to as brain. He stood outside the small overcrowded pub, with music that seemed to be loud enough to entertain half of London. His eyes were glazed, while his expression resembled a goldfish frozen in time.

There was a glass in his left hand, too large for a shot, but too small for a beer. Did he have a whiskey perhaps? Harry didn't remember.

He was all by himself, since Hermione and Ron had remained inside like proper little non-smokers. He didn't remember how many cigarettes he had smoked this night, but a moment ago he had tossed the empty package away. Intentionally aiming for the bin, he had missed it by almost three feet. Instead it lay on the ground, and was currently being stabbed to death by a long, thin and red high heel.

Harry wondered for a moment if cigarette packs could feel pain, and felt sorry. It just had seemed to be such a difficult task at this point: walking over, bending down, lifting the pack, and for what? It was easier to pretend the cigarette pack hadn't been his in the first time.

The red heel was attached to long leg, that lead to a polka dotted dress. Its owner wore matching red nail polish and in impressive amount of black hair was twisted up into a beehive, that added an additional four inches to the already impressive height.

Harry walked closer. He had to talk to that woman, or so the alcohol in his bloodstream told him.

When he got close enough, he tapped her on the shoulder, interrupting a conversation with a plain looking friend, he hadn't even seen before. "Excuse me, please" he stuttered out, trying not to sound too drunk, but miserably failing: "Do you have a lighter, darling?" he asked, trying to send a seductive smile, that probably looked as if he'd been electrocuted for a moment.

Both woman started laughing, the Lady with the red heels not even turning around. Harry was wondering what was so ridiculous about his question, when the plain friend pointed to the already lit cigarette in Harry's hand.

"Oh" Harry exclaimed, then threw the lit cigarette away, and asked for another one. Finally the woman turned around and offered him a red Marlboro.

Ignoring the cancer stick in on front of him, Harry ogled the woman. She seemed to be older than him, probably in her mid thirties, had an impressive amount of chest hair and a 5 o'clock shadow. That was unexpected. Not that Harry minded. Despite considering himself 75 per cent heterosexual, the love of his life had been a man.

The woman... man had impressive eyebrows and a beauty mark under her left eye, which was an obvious fake. Apart from that, the face sparkled like a disco ball: glittery eyeliner, combined with glittery lipgloss and glittery blusher. Now that Harry paid closer attention, he noted that the woman's... man's body was covered in a shimmery lotion.

"Like what you see?" the transvestite asked in a deep throaty voice.

Close up, he realised that his object of attraction was almost an entire head taller than him. Harry didn't mind. Tall bodies usually meant long legs, that could wrap themselves around him in a snakelike grip, pulling him closer to...

A hand waved in front of his face "do you still want that fag, sweetie?" A now annoyed voice asked him, not too happy about his tendency to space out when he was drunk (or sober). "Yes, t-t-thank you," he barked out, embarrassed.

It took a couple of attempts for his uncoordinated fingers to place the cigarette between his quivering lips. He hated how his upper lip started to shake whenever he got too horny or too drunk. No wonder that he usually sounded like a retard whenever he tried to chat up a woman... or man.

A this moment, Harry noticed that he still held some instant bravery in his hand, and gulped it down. Vodka, already a bit stale.

He placed the cigarette back in his mouth, then repeated his question for a lighter. The transvestite in with the red heels did not move, but his - now that Harry came to think of it - gender undefined friend started to dive through their bag for one.

Long, painted fingernails stroke up and down Harry's biceps. "My name is Cedric, by the way. What is yours, sugar?"

"Hrrmmmmmmm?!" Harry answered eloquently in highest concentration.

Cedric chuckled without parting his lips. The result was a sound like the opening of a jar. He moved his hand from Harry's upper arm to his chest, then up to his shoulder, where it rested for a moment. At the same time, his friend had found a lighter and offered it to Harry, who blindly fumbled for it, not wanting to take his eyes of his new friend. Cedric scared him a bit.

Harry was right in his assumption, because the next thing he remembered was Cedric's tongue in his ear, while he took the lighter out of his hand, and lit the cigarette for him. At the same time his other hand was massaging Harry's buttocks.

Harry's own hands just hang down at his sides. His brain had decided to go on a holidays and failed to inform him what else to do with them. The cigarette was hanging between his shaking lips, but he hadn't taken one drag of nicotine yet. His main attention was on Cedric's hand, which slowly moved from his left butt cheek to the front of his jeans.

Harry felt the material tightening. His knees went a bit wobbly, and his legs started to shake.

Cedric's hand reached its - goal - and he could feel his claw-like nails rubbing against his pulsing member. Harry closed his eyes and leaned his head back. A loud moan escaped his lips. In his drunk state, he didn't care where he was, or how many other people were around him.

Cedric's tongue, which had just been attached to Harry's ear, snaked now down to his Adam's apple. A singe finger traced the veins of Harry's left arm from his wrist towards his biceps, where it was joined by the rest of the hand. The hand moved further up, until it had his neck in a vice-like grip.

"Do you like playing games, sugar?"

Harry's brain was still blank, and his body was unable to answer, which was apparently the equivalent to a 'yes.'

"I like playing games, too!" Cedric said, and nibbled on Harry's earlobe.

Somehow Harry agreed to accompany Cedric home, though he no longer remembered how that had happened. They stood outside a rundown townhouse, were a door opened with a screeching noise. Harry entered after Cedric and felt like he had just travelled forty years back in time. A lush red couch sat in the centre of the stuffed living room. The floor was a fluffy cloud of white, and the walls were covered in zebra print. Beaded strings were covering the large double windows, and the entrance to the kitchen to his left. There was a small round television blurring some black and white noise in the corner on top of a makeshift table, that looked like it used to be the inside part of a washing machine.

Before Harry could inspect the room any further, he felt himself being pressed into the couch, and covered in eager kisses. Once his shoes had been taken off, Cedric was working on the zipper of his jeans. A cry escaped his lips when his length was suddenly engulfed into a pair of hot lips and an eager tongue circled around his top.

Sweat was dripping down his back and his forehead while his cries of pleasure got louder and more desperate. He dug his fingers deep into the couch, almost ripping the fabric apart. "More, please, deeper ... yesssssssss" he heard a voice, that sounded like his own, scream.

He saw stars. Fireworks. They twinkled, and danced, and somersaulted through the sky. The world was burning in bright red flames, ten thousand times brighter than the sun. Then it started to boil, bubble, overflow. The Earth was vomiting lava like an oversized volcano. more More MORE!

Just...

It wasn't the world! That scenario happened inside Harry's body and he couldn't hold back any longer.

A voice laughed mockingly. "Such a little kid," it teased. "Cannot last longer than two minutes." Then the voice came closer, and turned back into a sultry whisper: "I hope you last longer next time"

Before Harry found the right words, or any words at all, he heard someone giggling. Muffled footsteps. Cabinet doors were opened, then closed, then there was the sound of liquid being poured into a glass.

Harry tried to sit up. Slowly. His body wasn't quite responding yet. He felt drained and exhausted, but in an excruciatingly good way. Eagerly he accepted the glass of whiskey offered to him, and gulped it down. "Want another one?" Cedric asked, the bottle still in his talons. Harry nodded, not trusting his vocal cords.

Along the way, Cedric had gotten rid of the polka dotted dress, and stood now in front of him in a lacy bra with leopard print, and matching panties that were...

Holy Shit!

Harry spew liquid all over himself and had a coughing fit. With teary eyes he starred again, mouth hanging wide open. He wasn't sure if he'd manage to close it ever again.

Cedric was still standing in front of him, one high-heeled foot on the black table next to the couch, smiling seductively, the whiskey bottle in one hand.

Harry gulped. Loud. His eyes were trained on his crotch-less panties. Reflected by the light, glittered several piercing against smooth, shaven skin.

The whiskey was completely forgotten. Harry's head got light, and he slid down the couch. As if asking for approval, he glanced up to Cedric with heavy, lust filled eyes.

Harry could not remember a lot of details after that. At one point, he was sure he sniffed some white powder through a rolled up ten pound note from Cedric's belly button, but then everything turned into one gigantic blur.

At some point, Cedric's friend, who's name he still didn't know, joined the party. He didn't look as plain as Harry first thought. He actually looked a lot like Draco, or rather morphed his features into Draco's.

First he only saw him standing in the corner, but then he moved over, or floated over, as he didn't touch the ground, or moved his legs. He smiled at him. A brilliant, true smile. Draco winked and took his short shorts and his oversized red shirt off. He wore nothing underneath. His flesh was white and unmarred apart from his left wrist. There was some gauze wrapped around it. Harry had never noticed it before. It was on top of Draco's pulse point, and the gauze was coloured in a brownish red tint.

Blood.

Harry shuddered for a moment, but his concentration got interrupted when Draco bent down to sit on top of his hips.

Though he was already spent, it took him less than five seconds to build an erection again. Harry moaned in anticipation.

The room began to swirl, until everything was nothing a wild mixture of colours, and even those faded into non-existence. His sense of smell, so strong just a moment ago, disappeared into nothingness. He could not hear a thing, but only feel and see.

He saw Draco on top of him, moving up and down in a steady pace. Sweat dripped down his from slender neck to his collar bone. They were surrounded by a brilliant blackness, deeper than everything Harry had experienced before.

Harry was short of exploding- and there was nothing to make it stop! The blackness burst into million pieces, and the brightest light Harry had ever seen appeared. It blinded him enough to squeeze his eyes shut.

How long had he been out? It had felt like only a mere few milliseconds, yet the entire universe had shifted, and provided him with the illusion of field of dancing rainbows. There were wild colours spreading everywhere. Some of them, Harry had never seen before and had therefore no names for them. It didn't matter.

Harry remembered more alcohol. Glasses of whiskey were passed around like water, and gulped down eagerly. A detached hand with red nail polish was pouring from a never ending bottle of Jack Daniel's, and made sure that Harry lost count on how much he actually had to drink.

A mirror was handed around, on top of it sat line of fine white powder, and a rolled up pound note. Harry eagerly inhaled all of it, while sex with Draco? or Cedric? He was no longer certain. The body shape and facial features of the person on top of him kept on morphing from one into the other.

Another body pressed itself against his backside, rubbing his member against his bum. Smooth fingers explored his body.

Suddenly the man on top of him split into two, and he saw himself having sex with Cedric and Draco at the same time.

Did his body split, too?

Harry didn't know how this was physically possible, but he was at a stage beyond caring. He groped, groaned, moaned and screamed out both their names.

The body pressed against him turned into a snake, and slithered all over his upper body, his chest, his stomach, up to his collar bone and wrapped itself around his throat, tighter and tighter and tighter.

At first, it only felt uncomfortable, but after a while it became hard to breath. Harry gulped, coughed and gasped, but no avail. His lungs started to burn with the lack of oxygen. It felt good in a strange way.

A feeling of numbness set it. Harry's arms became heavy, and he lost any feelings in his legs. His brain turned into mush, but his sense of touch became more intense, and was driving him over the edge.

More hands started touching him, caressing him all over. His shape turned obscure. He saw a weird attachment of limbs, torsos, and heads swimming in a puddle of white skin. They twisted and turned until nothing but a blur of colours was left. His own physique morphed into a blob of colour, too. Everything started to spin and twist: the furniture, walls, carpet and even the clothes, that were spread hazardously on the floor, joined. They all turned into a tornado of blue, red, pink and gold, and spiralled down, down, down, and deeper down. There didn't seem to be an end to this black hole evading his mind.

Harry couldn't help it. He started to scream.

He had to fight. The darkness was getting closer, the pull towards it was increasing in strength - or perhaps it was only he, who was getting weaker? He tried to get hold of something, or anything, but nothing existed any longer.

Only then did Harry realise that he had already ceased to exist, too. His physical form was long gone, and left behind was only his detached mind.

He found himself drowning. He was surrounded by a cool, and heavy darkness that tied him with its deep blues and greens. Harry didn't fight. He let the water pull him down deeper, claim him. Everything became colder, darker, the blues and greens turned into muddy shapes of darkness. The water turned into sticky tar.

Slowly, Harry let go.

Harry woke up to a beeping noise. Something in his head told him that it should be familiar by now. He opened his eyes to find himself once again in the local A&E, with busy nurses and doctors running around.

A few memories of last night came back to him. Images of naked men, hot sex, and too many drugs circled in his still dizzy brain.

Fortunately, the bright light didn't hurt his eyes this time. Perhaps it was still a side effect from the cocaine? Harry had never tried cocaine before and wasn't very aware of its effects on the body.

"Can I make a phone call?" he asked one of the nurses, with a voice so raspy that he didn't recognise it as his own. He just wanted to call Hermione, survive her scolding and go home.

"Over there" The nurse rolled her eyes, and pointed to the reception area. Harry got dressed into the filthy clothes from last night, and stumbled into the pointed out direction.

It seemed to be only a few moments later, when Harry truly feared for his life.

An enraged Hermione stabbed her evil pointer finger into his eyes, as she spat a long lecture on how worried she had been into his face. Harry didn't even attempt to listen. He was too scared for his eyesight.

Ron was standing right next to her, and sensibly kept his face expressionless. He was nodding at every third and failed to notice the mortal danger Harry was in.

He only wished Hermione was already done. As much as he understood his friend's worries, it was getting annoying. "I know, I know, I know, I know it all and I'm truly sorry." He brushed a few shaking fingers through his hair. "Can't we just go home and forget about it?"

As soon as he voiced his request, something in his stomach told him that his hadn't been the right thing to ask.

"YOU need help!" Hermione kept on raging.

Ron crossed his arms over his chest, and nodded in agreement: "Professional help," he clarified.

Hermione crossed her arms too. She raised her dreaded eyebrow again.

Harry couldn't believe that he had heard them correctly. He was still like a statue, his eyes bursting, and drool dripping down his gaping mouth. He had to let this sink in.

Apparently his friends truly believed that he was a case for the loony bin!


	15. Chapter 15

**AN: and the next chapter. We're getting close to the end now. Two more chapters to go. :)**

Grown Up Cage

Harry missed another two days at work, which he spend sulking in his bed, ignoring all incoming calls. And there were quite a lot of them. The last time he checked, Mr Snape had called him a total of three times. Two calls had been made from his company number, one from his private mobile.

There were calls from Ron, Hermione, and even his mother had tried to get hold of him. Plus, a few from unknown numbers.

Harry had counted a total of seven voice-mails, but he them all of them without having listened to even one. He didn't care. About anything.

Harry also ignored his doorbell. People were coming and going, ringing said bell, more or less frequently, then shuffled around, muttered to themselves and left, when it became apparent that he wouldn't answer.

Some even knocked on the door. Or banged on it like there was no tomorrow, until the downstairs neighbour shouted and complained about the noise.

"Harry, I know you're home! Please open the door"

"Potty, come on, mate! Let's talk this though, okay?"

"Harry, I'm your friend. I want talk with you, open door, okay?"

"POTTER STOP BEING SUCH AN IDIOT!"

"Potty, please!"

"Good Afternoon, Mr Potter. My name is Officer Finnagan, me and my partner, Officer Thomas just want to see if you're okay."

"FOR FUCK'S SAKE - OPEN THE DOOR, MATE"

"Mr. Potter, please open the door"

After only one day Harry had mastered to blend all the annoying voices out. There was no reason to listen to them. They were nothing. They meant nothing...

Why would his friends do that to him?

Who was the idiot that sent the police, for gods sakes?

His mother's and Hermione's faces came to his mind. Both of them could have been responsible.

So what if he got drunk? So what if he decided on having an orgy? He did not have to explain himself, did he? As long as he didn't harm anyone else or break the law in process, he was free to do whatever he liked!

Well, okay, perhaps he had broken the law with the amount of cocaine that he had used, but so what? It wasn't like he was the only person in London ever trying drugs! There were thousands of more severe cases out there. He wasn't even an addict! He had only tried it once!

It had been a one time thing!

It wasn't his fault that everyone made a big drama out of it.

His last admission to the A&E had been three month ago - if he remembered correctly. The whiskey overdose during his interview didn't count anyway. Who didn't drink prior to a life changing appointment?

Harry ran his fingers through his overgrown hair, then stumbled towards the kitchen. He didn't feel like leaving the house, but his refrigerator recently developed a severe case of anorexia, and he was starving as a result.

"Harry, what are you doing?" A soft voice asked from the direction of his bed. Harry shrugged, but turned around. "Just making some coffee," he replied, "and have a cigarette. Haven't had one for the entire day"

Draco was gone when Harry went back to the bedroom. That was not out of the ordinary. He came and went as he pleased these days.

Harry grabbed his guitar. His fingers ached to play some music. So much had been going on lately, and his twisted head needed an outlet for all the bottled up emotions that were running amok in his head.

Harry was covered in sweat, as usual when he finished composing a song and usually he wasn't too bothered by it. Today however, he had to jump into the shower. He had to wash this dreadful filth of his body that reminded him of the failure that he seemed to be in the eyes of everyone else!

The bathroom mirror reflected a blob of lobster-red surrounded by steam when Harry had finished his shower. The water had been hot. Too hot, but that was how he had wanted it.

Harry had scrubbed his arms, his chest, his legs, back and face until he couldn't handle the pain any longer. Still stark naked, he walked back to his bed to lay down to feel miserable.

"Harry?"

"Harry?"

"Are you alright?"

"Harry I'm worried!"

Slowly, he opened his eyes and saw Draco kneeling next to him on the bed. He was fidgeting and caressing his neck with one hand. "You're back" Harry exclaimed. "I never know when you come, or when you go, or for how long you're going to stay!" He complained.

"But that is entirely up to you Potty," Draco replied. "You make me come and go. I come whenever I'm wanted and leave whenever I'm no longer needed."

Harry exhaled, and got off the bed. He fished for the closest pair of boxers and an old red t-shirt, didn't care whether they were dirty or not, and put them on. That was enough clothing, as he didn't intent to leave his flat at all.

Draco wrinkled his nose in disagreement. "That's what you call an outfit? Potty, I have always loved your 'I-don't-give-a-fuck' - style, but don't you think this is a bit over the top? At least get some clean boxers. I can smell them all the way to nirvana!"

Harry sighed, but removed the shorts and grabbed for another pair. He gave them a thorough sniff to ensure he picked clean ones this time. Turning back to Draco, he received an approving nod.

"Play that song for me again," asked Draco. With the guitar already in his hands, Harry sat cross legged on the bed, tuning the instrument. Draco took a seat on the window sill, dangling his legs. He was whistling a tune along with Harry's guitar tuning, and then laughed at his own non existent musical skills. Harry couldn't suppress a smile. It was just like old times.

Harry changed the guitar cords a little, making them move powerful, and added a little crescendo here and there.

At the second chorus Draco chimed in, sounding like a rusty trumpet. But this was just perfect. The song sounded better this way, like a natural part of the chorus. The missing piece.

Harry threw his guitar aside and ran to his computer, plugged it in, and powered it on. While the screen was loading, he was running around the tiny flat like a frantic chicken.

"What are you looking for?" asked Draco frowning.

"You'll see, you'll see," was Harry's muffled response from somewhere behind his bed.

He was throwing some mess from one side to the other: dirty and clean socks, a couple of candy wrappers, some unopened mail from last month, something that could have been a leftover slice of pizza at one point and - after a loud shout of triumph - a microphone, that he handed his to Draco.

Harry started the song again.

There was no need to plug in the guitar or sing into the microphone himself. He would just add Draco's voice to the already recorded version.

Harry was completely engrossed in his music and just continued to play one song after the other. Some of his own, some covers, and then something he made up on the go. He only took notice of the time when the upcoming sunrise started tickling the nape of his neck.

When he looked up, he found a stray microphone lying lonely below the windowsill. Harry shook his head, feeling disappointed. He hadn't even noticed Draco's leaving. "Tosser could have said good-bye though," he muttered.

He fished for a pack of Camels that he didn't remember buying. (Camels... seriously? Who bought that shit?).

Once he finished the cigarette, and gave his balls a good scratch, he sat down to edit his recordings. He tweaked and tinkered with Draco's lyrics until he was satisfied with the result.

Harry had spoken to Frances about a release date for his song some time last week. It was a very brief conversation, and Harry was too excited to really listen. As a result, he didn't remember a lot. He just hoped there would be time to add Draco's lyrics to the released version.

Thinking quickly, he forwarded a short email to Gryffindor with Draco's recording in the attachment, and an explanation that they were essential for the song. Together, they had created a masterpiece.

His rumpling stomach advised him that it would be a great idea to leave the solitude of his flat, and grab a bite somewhere. There was a pub around the corner that served the most delicious minced pies in all London. He hadn't been there for a long time.

He had avoided the place because it reminded him of Draco. They used to meet up there all the time, shared a laugh, and poked fun of other customers. They had been there almost daily

"Once or twice a months perhaps. Maximum," a voice suddenly interrupted his musings.

Draco was back.

"It felt like it was much more often," mumbled Harry while he was looking for a left and right shoe that were preferably remotely similar.

"Take those at door," Draco suggested.

Harry looked up from under his bed, where he was currently looking for one of his converse.

"These are my running shoes" Harry said, shooting daggers at the offensive pair of footwear.

Draco only laughed at him: "So what? Since when have you become so picky over shoes? Just put them on, I doubt that anyone in the pub will mind - or even notice!"

Harry didn't care much about shoes in general, but this pair held a flair of sweat and endless torture. "But they're my bad karma shoes" he whined.

There was no need to turn around to see Draco shaking his head and rolling his eyes. Harry had a very accurate mental picture. Draco's antics didn't bother him though. They really had nothing on Hermione's eyebrow. That was one infernal torture devise!

Draco didn't say anything, but no matter how hard he looked, he could not find any shoe for his left foot! It was between going barefoot or wearing the dreadful trainers.

Only - and really only because the weather outside was less then ten degrees, the trainers screamed victory.

With said torture devices strapped to his feet, Harry opened his door, just to find Hermione standing on the other side, evil eyebrow in place.

Apart from that, she was wearing her purple tracksuit, her dirty black trainers, a funny device that looked a lot like a watch but was measuring her pulse, and had her hair pulled into a ponytail.

Hermione broke out into a wide grin and hugged Harry like there was no tomorrow. (Actually, there would be no tomorrow for Harry, if she continued her vice-like grip!)

"Need... to... breathe..." he coughed, and bent over, his hands on his knees, exaggerating. Hermione, completely oblivious to his brush-in with death, rambled on. "I was prepared to smash this bloody door in to and drag you out of you self inflicted misery, but you're already here, gear and all. I'm so glad to see you coming around, mate!". Her beam was possibly lighting up the north pole at the moment.

"I ... - but - ... What?" was all that Harry could voice in his baffled state of mind.

They had parted on a massive argument over his sanity, and Hermione wanted to go running as if nothing had happened at all? By the time he could think of a coherent response, Hermione had already dragged him four levels, down and outside of the building, still chatting away.

It was a freezing cold morning (much cooler than expected Harry wasn't sure whether he should continue to trust the BBC weather forecast). The wind blew icily around his red nose. Harry had both arms wrapped around his body, a burning cigarette in one shaking hand, which Hermione audibly disapproved of.

Perhaps he would light up another one as soon as this was done. Or maybe he should consider smoking two at a time just to really freak her out. He knew she was still struggling without cigarettes.

He wasn't a mean person per se, but he hated how he always ended up being the biggest failure known to mankind in the eyes of his friend. Hermione had to understand that she wasn't perfect as well.

He wanted her to fail, and he wanted to rub it in on every occasion possible. He would raise his own eyebrow, and he tell her in his most self-righteous voice how disappointed he was in her. Then he would cross his arms, and raise his eyebrow even higher, so that it disappeared under his hairline, like Hermione's did whenever she was on a roll, and suggest she seek professional help. He would even go ahead, and pick up a leaflet for her.

"Earth to Harry, are you still here?"

A hand was waving up and down in front of his face, almost knocking into his nose twice.

"What?" He barked back and glared down at Hermione who unknowingly had interrupted his master-planning.

"We're at the tube station" She looked at him as if this was the most exciting news of the day.

"So..?"

Hermione threw him a challenging look. "You might want to get your oyster card to get through the barrier" she explained like talking to a child.

"I know that!" Harry searched through all of his pockets.

"You don't have it, do you?" Hermione inquired after some long seconds.

Harry flared his nostrils, and brushed his fingers through his hair, pulling at some strands. If he kept that habit up, he would be bald well before his thirtieth birthday. He knit his eyebrows together in an attempt for a more menacing look, but only archived a resemblance to a gorilla with constipation.

Hermione told him so.

It didn't do anything to improve his mood.

"That's it," he grunted, but not loud enough for her to hear. He went to the little news-stand and bought a new pack of cigarettes. Camels. No matter how disgusting he found them, they were Hermione's preferred brand. In his hurry to unwrap the pack, he almost executed half of the cigarettes inside. He put on in his mouth and lit it up. "Hmmmmmm" he moaned with closed eyes, and immediately took a second drag one.

He could feel Hermione's eyes on the cancer stick, shooting daggers. She almost looked hypnotised.

Harry inwardly grinned. He felt a lot better now.

Unfortunately, the moment only lasted one mere moment. Hermione got a grip on herself, and moved her attention elsewhere. To Harry's missing oyster card, to be exact. With gritting teeth, Harry ended up paying for a full day 3 Zones pass.

At the end of the day, Hermione would beg him for a smoke, he knew it.

Harry still wondered how he ended up coming here with Hermione in the first place. His stomach was still screaming for the massive breakfast it had been promised. He also hated how Draco had disappeared again without a good-bye.

'No manners, that boy,' he shook his head slightly.

Hermione had caught the movement. "What did you say"?

"Nothing," mumbled Harry and turned to look out of the window. Not that there was anything to see. He just needed to distract his eyes and mind somehow.

"And why would thinking of 'nothing' make you shake your head?"

His too observant friend inquired without looking at him.

"It just does!" Harry brushed his hand through his hair, pulling strands one more time. Hermione didn't seem to notice. She just shrugged her shoulders and starred at her reflection. She had lost a lot of weight, but still insisted that her fat 'jiggled' around when she moved to quickly.

"Women!" He huffed under his breath. As if 'jiggly' fat would have been visible under her tent-like tracksuit anyway.

Hermione ignored that comment: "You were thinking about something, quite obviously."

"It's somewhat personal. I keep my diary up there"

"Up where?"

"My brain, obviously, and I was just filling it up with some information."

"you are writing a mental diary?"

"That's what I just said!" Harry rolled his eyes. He hated having to repeat himself.

"Why didn't you just say so?"

"I didn't want to"

"Why not?" Hermione raised her eyebrow.

"I was afraid it might sound stupid"

"Almost everything you say sounds stupid, mate! That's what I like about you!"

"You like me because I'm stupid?"

Harry's eyebrow was now competing with Hermione's for the pole position.

Hermione exhaled and put her hand on Harry's shoulder, "You're not stupid, Harry, you're entertaining! - And maybe a bit of an idiot". She patted him twice, then crossed her arms again.

"I'm an entertaining idiot," parroted Harry

"There's nothing wrong with being entertaining, idiot," said Hermione: "You want to be an entertainer, so that should have been a compliment."

"I am a musician, not an entertainer!" Harry clarified, not looking at his friend. Absentmindedly, he started pulling the hair on his left eyebrow. - Or the left side of his unibrow, however one wanted to put it.

"You could do with some plucking!" A voice to his right pointed out. It wasn't Hermione's though. Somehow Draco had taken her seat.

"There is nothing wrong with my eyebrows," Harry argued.

"Good for you, mate - but why did this conversation suddenly shift to your pet caterpillars?" asked Draco with Hermione's voice and raised his eyebrow accordingly.

"You just told me to pluck them, didn't you?" Harry remarked anxiously. Tiny little alarm bells went off inside his head. Something was severely wrong with this conversation.

"I certainly didn't. If I'd start paying attention to your grooming standards, there will be no time doing anything else with my life anymore!" deadpanned Hermione.

"I must be hearing things again then" muttered Harry, and shook his head. Hermione laughed, but a small frown between her eyebrows remained. Harry bit on his lower lip. He had this dreadful feeling that he needed to be more careful how to act around his friend.

"What is wrong with my grooming standards?" asked Harry to move the conversation to a safer topic, not noticing that this was not the safest topic to discuss with a woman.

"Shall I start top or bottom?" This time Hermione had both eyebrows raised. Harry could see the imaginary list above her head growing in size. He shrugged, and slumped even deeper into his seat. "Why don't you just start in the middle?"

"Well, in that case, I will start with the hole in your pants - in a quite peculiar place - and shall continue with your cute little Charlie Brown boxers."

Harry looked down to inspect said hole. It was barely the size of a two pound coin, nothing to worry about.

"That's Woodstock, not Charlie Brown," he remarked.

"And that's better because...?."

"Because he's much cooler than Charlie Brown and he's named after one of the most awesome music festivals ever!" The eye-roll was present in Harry's voice.

"How do you know?" Hermione's eyebrow was back in full force: "Have you been there?"

"Not yet, but my time machine's already ordered." Stupid questions deserved even more stupid responses.

"You would just fit in with the crowd there," Hermione nodded. "Your clothes and hair definitely are from that era.

"Are not!"

Harry was quite certain that they wore flared jeans and flowery blouses back then. He didn't own any item of clothing that was remotely like that. The hair - maybe, but that didn't really count.

"You're trainers are certainly from the sixties," said Hermione.

"They're not. They're from Oxfam."

"Just what I said."

Hermione's eyebrow raised all the way up to her hairline and further. "You asked me about your grooming standards, didn't you? I'm pretty sure that the lumps you call clothing fit into that category."

At the next stop they emerged the train in a cloud of people that were rushing towards their perspective places or work.

Hermione was squinting her eyes, looking for someone. Seconds later, a head of red hair walked towards them. Clad in Adidas sports gear, Ron greeted them with a huge grin like a lovesick puppy on his face.

Harry rolled his eyes, and starred into the opposite direction, making gagging noises. Grouchily, he demanded that they better start running now so was finally going to get to his breakfast.

After the jog, he and Hermione sat down at the table Ron already occupied with three cups, as usual. Stomach still grumbling, Harry bought an additional 6000 calories worth of shotbread. Hermione didn't seem to notice, as she was chatting with Ron. Otherwise he would have been told off by how.

Somehow that didn't make him feel better. Harry felt left out.

After having finished his coffee and breakfast, Harry yawned, and got up. He stretched his muscles, then turned to say good-bye to Hermione and Ron, who didn't give the impression that they would miss him at all. "Okay, I'm heading off to bed now," he announced, "I'm tired enough to sleep through the next century."

Ron looked at him as if he wanted to say something. His mouth gaped open, and his eyes bulged, but no sound left his lips. Ron then shook his head, and turned to stare out of the window. Whatever it was that he had wanted to say to Harry must be something quite awful.

Harry was in self defence mode. His hands, hidden away in the pockets of his trousers were balled into fists. His nostrils flared, and his lips had disappeared into a firm white line.

Ron shook his head, defeated, and whispered something to Hermione, who put a hand on his shoulder. Both threw worried glances towards Harry, who then turned around and stalked away without a glance backwards.

Harry had an idea what that had been about. Ron had certainly wanted to discuss therapy again. Apparently Harry had made 'progress' in joining their morning exercise again, and they probably felt that this meant he was ready for another round of lecturing, and belittling, and telling him about all the advances of a mental institution.

He did not want to hear anything about that!

He wasn't interest in going back to his flat any longer and instead was riding on the tube thoughtlessly, changing trains ever so often.

When he passed Hammersmith, Turnham Green, Acton Town and South Ealing, he realised that he was on the way to Heathrow Airport.

'Fair Enough,' he muttered to himself, and stayed seated until the train reached its destination.

Twenty-two minutes later he arrived at Heathrow Terminal Five, but still felt like he had travelled far enough. There was random chatter in various languages, some people were talking into their phones, while others were having conversations with their travel partners, and for the first time Harry allowed himself to admit that he felt utterly alone and out of place.

All of them would get away eventually. They would board a plane and fly away, while he remained super-glued to his stupid little life.

"Just do it!"

Draco was talking to him.

"Do what?" He whispered back, hoping that none of the other people would catch him talking to himself.

"Go away," the blonde replied, "book a flight to somewhere. Anywhere. Sometimes you just have to leave all worries behind and move on. Being trapped in that cage called grown-up-world isn't good for you when you live there permanently. Give the child in you some time to play."

Harry's thoughts shifted to some destinations he always wanted to travel to: A beach in Spain, a trip to Amsterdam. Salzburg, with the little cobbled streets and old fashioned shop windows. The place where Mozart grew up.

All sounded wonderful and irresistible, but he was well aware of the meagre, little red figure, that was his recent bank statement. He wouldn't be able to afford a spontaneous plane ticket to anywhere, even if he fully exhausted his overdraft.

"Too bad that you don't have your guitar on you," said Draco. "You could play some music and earn a ticket to anywhere with it."

"Maybe I really should just do that." He agreed. Somehow, his mood had already improved.

He didn't need therapy. He needed a holiday. And a plan!

Oxford Circus wasn't his favourite spot by far, the crowd usually a cloud of teenage girls who's idea of good music was Rihanna and Justin Bieber.

As soon as his guitar and mic were set up and he was warmed up, Harry played a cover of 'Knocking' on Heaven's Door' - the original version, and not the horrid Guns'n'Roses cover - and managed to make it sound much sadder than Bob Dylan himself.

No one threw as much as a penny into his direction, and Harry didn't expected them to. The song was soon followed by Jeff Buckley's 'Hallelujah,' and 'Good-bye, Ruby Tuesday', a song that Harry wasn'table to finish at all. As if stuck in an eternal time loop, he kept on repeating and repeating the chorus, not giving a damn that his two hours were almost up, and there was still no money next to his name.

"Fuck it all," Harry announced to no one in particular, and started to make up random notes on his guitar.

"I want to die in a fucking time machine"

"and watch myself taking my last breath over and over again"

"because, fuck it all,"

"fuck that shit!"

"I care about nothing but my own misery"

"what a pathetic life"

"Fuck that pathetic life"

He shouted out to his mismatching, cheery accords. He started to whistle to his music for a while and - without realising - did a little penguin dance.

Somewhere between senseless lyrics and uncoordinated dance moves, people started showering Harry's case with a waterfall of coins.

Later in the evening he found himself banging like crazy at the door of Hermione's second floor apartment. She opened, clad in plaited pyjama bottoms and a purple tank top, that was still too small for her. "Harry mate," she said in a sleepy and surprised voice: "What the heck are you doing here in the middle of the night that needs the attention of all my neighbours?"

"I was thinking about what you and Ron told me the other day, and I came to the conclusion that there is nothing wrong with me, Hermione. I don't need therapy. I don't even need to rest. I just need to get out of here for a while. You know, go somewhere else, see a different scenery. Get a different vibe."

Hermione only looked at him, too tired to raise her eyebrow like she probably would have done.

"I went busking. Got a last minute slot, and almost made a hundred quid. Its enough for a trip to somewhere. Close the tattoo shop, let Ginny move your appointments to other days, and come with me. Let's just have some careless fun"


	16. Chapter 16

**AN: and here is the next chapter for you! A big thank you to Bullybullet6 for leaving my first review and favouring my story *hugs***

Mozart Shaped Dreams

Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it again. She took a deep breath, and made another attempt to speak. Still, no words escaped her lips.

She scratched her nose, then removed her glasses, gave them a quick clean, and put them back on.

Harry still stood in the door frame, starring at the goldfish that somehow had replaced his friend.

Finally, Hermione managed to breathe one single word: "What?"

Harry released his lower lip from between his teeth. How could he explain himself? He had never been particularly good with words. Unless he was writing a song, that was. Maybe he should try to explain himself with lyrics? Harry drew in a deep breath: " my solitude is suffocating me - I feel trapped in a places I used to be free. Now the shackles called life are breaking me."

Hermione just looked at him as if he was crazy. "Can you repeat that in English, please?"

Harry was just about to open his mouth again, but Hermione stopped him. "I need a drink for this." She waived him into her flat, where Harry immediately fell into the comfy couch, scarring Crookshanks, Hermione's cat away.

Hermione sat down on the floor, a bottle of Smirnoff in her hand. It was only half full. She hadn't been joking about needing a drink.

"Okay" she drawled out: did you take any drugs today? Larger than life amounts of alcohol? Spent the afternoon sniffling the nozzles at a petrol station?"

Harry didn't even bother rolling his eyes.

"What was that about your job? You haven't really quit, have you?" she asked.

Harry shrugged, and shifted into a more comfortable position. "My job always only was an end to needs, and now those needs have ended. They sent me a letter today, the invitation for another disciplinary. Honestly, I think they were going to sack me anyway."

Hermione's eyebrow rocketed to the sky. "But how you're gonna live? Pay your rent? Don't tell me you've decided to live of benefits?"

"You remember us celebrating my contract with Gryffindor, don't you? I have a job. I'm a professional musician now!"

"Harry, mate" Hermione tried her hardest to keep her voice calm. "You're possibly maybe about to BECOME a professional musician. You have your contract, yes, but you haven't been in the studio, you haven't done any PR, you haven't done any performances, you haven't done a fucking CD release. Its all at the very beginning stages. There is nothing to grab yet. At this point, you can't be sure that they won't forget about you at all!" She took a deep breath. "At least, wait until one fucking pay check, decorated with the Gryffindor logo, is walking into your direction before you make any stupid decisions."

Harry bit his lips. that was not what he had expected to hear! "That doesn't matter. It will happen and I know it! Its a matter of time only, and Frances had already confimed that 'Cotton Balls' will be released soon. Maybe I just don't have to go to the studio and re-record because my demo is already good enough!"

"Harry, you're not really stupid enough to believe that, are you? Every single song gets recorded in a professional studio! A company like Gryffindor certainly won't release a demo tape, now matter how good it is!"

"I said it doesn't matter!" Harry jumped up from the couch, and jerked at this hair.

"I need to get out, I need to get away, without giving a shit what will happen afterwards. For all I know, I will have an appointment in that stupid recording studio by the time we come back!"

"Well," exclaimed Hermione and got up, too: "I can't stop you, can I?" She then walked towards the little shelf in the corner, right next to the kitchen door, and took a small piggy bank off the top shelf. She opened it and counted the money that was falling out. "I've got one hundred seventy-five pounds and eighty three pennies in here. Take it and book a trip. Make it somewhere nice, and warm with a beach. If I can't stop you, I might as well enjoy myself"

The next morning, Harry was on his way to the airport again. This time, with Hermione in tow. Both of them were clad in comfortable cargo pants, long sleeved t-shirts, and comfortable converse shoes.

It was barely seven o'clock in the morning, but the Piccadilly line was already packed. Various pieces of luggage were stored between different shapes of legs. In the middle of it sat an old worn Eastpack messenger bag, and a vintage backpack with flowery design, which was all Harry and Hermione needed for the next couple of days.

Their flight to Vienna was leaving somewhere around nine o'clock. They would arrive at their destination around midday. Plenty of time for some sightseeing, recommended by Hermione's Marco Polo travel guide. Harry had tried to convince her to go to Salzburg with him, even if it was for just a day-trip, but Hermione didn't budge. Vienna, in her and her travel guide's opinion, was culturally diverse, and the Mozart-ness of Salzburg just not her cup of tea.

"Do you think they speak any English there?" Harry asked, suddenly worried. They would probably have to talk to locals occasionally. Draco had taught him a few words in German, but apart from 'Ich bin ein kleines weisses Karnickel ' he didn't remember anything, and knowing Draco, it was probably something rather useless.

Hermione lifted her eyebrow, and Harry knew that his question must have been somewhat stupid. He didn't understand why though. As far as he knew, Hermione didn't speak the language either.

"You do realise that they have a lot of tourists that don't speak German. I'm pretty sure the locals speak enough English to communicate."

Harry hoped Hermione was right. It would make sense though. After all, almost everyone nowadays knew some English, right?

The two of them arrived at the right terminal and hurried to the check in desk. Technically, they still had a lot of time, but Harry was growing more anxious.

Both only carried hand luggage, and made it swiftly through security. "Welcome to the world of Duty Free!" announced Hermione. Harry was hot on her heels, when he spotted packs and packs of cheap cigarettes stocked up at the back of the shop. He was upset when the salesman told him that he needed to book an international flight to get the discounted Marlboros.

"But I'm flying to Austria!" He had complained, waving his ticket in front of the assistant shop manager's annoyed face. The man, rolled his eyes, and explained for what was probably the tenth time that Harry would need to fly outside of Europe to qualify as an international traveller (Probably hoping that Harry would go there on a one way ticket soon).

They finally boarded the plane and Hermione made herself comfortable in a window seat. Harry was seated between her and a middle aged man in a grey, expensive looking suit and horn rimmed glasses.

Very few minutes later, a flight attendant with too much make up, and a neatly pressed red uniform announced that the plane was about to take off and that all electronic devices had to be switched off. Harry thought he heard Draco mutter "Electronic devices? They should call them 'Infernal devices' considering how much they fuss about mobile phones.

When the plane machine touched ground at Vienna international airport, Harry made sure he was the first to exit the diabolical flying device with a green tinted face. His mood improved once they left the airport for the city centre.

After a stroll around the cobble stoned marked square, they found a traditional cafe in one of the little narrow side streets and enjoyed austrian specialities. It was basically coffee with whipped cream, and while Hermione seemed to enjoy her drink, Harry eyed it warily. The blob of cream, awkwardly swimming on top of the beverage, looked less then appetising to him. Why couldn't Austrians just pour milk into their coffees like every other sane nation? Harry shuddered, while he watched the white cloud melting into grease.

He only took a sip ever so often to give Hermione the impression that he was sophisticated enough to enjoy what he was drinking. She was the one paying, so he felt obliged not to complain and order something 'proper'.

Harry's credit card had informed him earlier that it declined the purchase.

"Maybe the money for the rent was already deducted," Harry had mused when he put the plastic back into his pocket.

That one sentence, though whispered, got Hermione's attention in a whim.

"The money for rent?" she screeched in capital letters. "You would have wasted the money that you need for your rent on a coffee and Apfelstrudel?"

"Well, you see..." Harry started to explain, but had to admit that all his reasoning sounded stupid, even to himself. He sighed.

"You really have to sort our your priorities," Hermione said without any judgemental undertone, which could only mean that she was really worried about him.

Harry immediately felt five inches smaller.

A short time later, the two of them got tired of window-shopping and walking around the picturesque city centre, and made their way to their hotel. The hotel small, and so it came with no surprise that their fourth floor room had to be reached via a staircase. It left both of them out of breath. Harry immediately fell onto the first bed, only now realising how much his feet were aching.

Hermione fell down next to him. "Can't walk over there now," she announced, pointing to the other bed.

Harry understood perfectly well how she was feeling.

About an hour later, Harry woke up to Hermione shaking his shoulder. "We're on holiday. Let's not waste our time with sleeping."

"What time is it?" mumbled Harry with his head still buried into his pillow.

"Just after eight."

Harry rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "My feet are aching, and my legs are aching, and my back is aching, and my shoulders are aching and..."

"And your head will be aching soon, too if you don't stop complaining right now!" Hermione threw a pack of Paracetamols at him. "Here, take one of them, and let's go."

The chatty, young receptionist was able to recommended a place that was only five walking minutes away from the hotel.

They played some kind of traditional austrian folk music, consisting of an accordion and - funnily enough a lead trumpet, while the singer made some odd noises, 'yodling', it was called, according to his know-it-all friend.

The trio on the stage did quit a good job of entertaining the mainly elderly crowd. Everyone was swaying along.

Beer was being served in oversized mugs that reminded Harry of the Oktoberfest, and he immediately decided to like this place a lot.

Harry's head turned when he heard some English chatter coming from the left. Young people, probably around their age, were having a rather pointless conversation in an American accent. Feeling more at ease, now that they were not the only foreigners in there, Hermione introduced herself.

Harry crossed his arms and sulked. They weren't here for a full day yet, and he had already been abandoned. He took a swig from his mug, but didn't really find it in him to enjoy his beer.

He heard Hermione laughing at something. One of the guys was drunk-whispering into her ear, which meant that it was loud enough for Harry to understand random words like: "Miami ink... convention... coming July" He rolled his eyes. Trust Hermione to find other tattoo-freaks wherever she went.

"So what brought you to Vienna?" He asked the blonde waitress instead, and asked for a third oversized beer.

"I truly hate the capitalistic and neurotic world we live in nowadays. Honestly, if I wasn't that capitalistic and neurotic myself, I would consider relocating to the jungle!" Announced a heavily drunk Harry later on the way back home.

Colin and Dennis, the two new friends he made, just seconds before leaving, were supporting him on either side.

Draco was happily bouncing along in front of them. "Life is like a public toilet. You only ever realise that you're out of toilet paper when it's too late!" he announced, and Harry nodded wholeheartedly. "One shouldn't stumble through life blindly. Always make sure to wear proper glasses," Harry submitted.

"Yeah, sometimes you need wine glasses, sometimes you need beer glasses, sometimes you need tumblers," Colin added.

All nodded in agreement.

"You know, people are always greedy and always jealous. They always want what they do not have. Sometimes I wonder whether they really want what they don't have, or if the average homo sapiens is prone to self torture!" Harry concluded.

"I like S&M once in a while," Draco remarked.

As it turned out, his new friends were planning on going to Salzburg tomorrow. Harry almost couldn't hold his excitement! He would get to see his personal paradise after all!

He didn't bother telling Hermione anything, still upset that she had abandoned him.

She was already lying in bed by the time he arrived, still awake, and obviously waiting for him, but Harry ignored her and went straight to bed. He put his headphones in, and The Strokes on full power. She could talk all night if she wanted.

The next morning Harry left before sunrise. Hermione was still asleep, not noticing anything. For a moment he felt bad for not leaving a note, but this thought got lost in his excitement.

Despite not remembering much of the previous night, Harry knew that they had decided to meet at the Vienna train station. Their was a leaving at eight. It was five to eight, and he still needed to find out which platform the train was leaving from.

"Did you find it yet?" Draco leaned over his shoulder to glimpse at the timetable.

"Platform number nine!" Harry remarked, his finger lingering on the evidence. "We need to get all the way to the end. Only the last few carriages will go all the way to Salzburg."

He grabbed his backpack, and started to run. The big clock, over-looming the train station was sitting at an uncomfortable seven fifty-eight. Only two more minutes until the train's departure. "That's more like platform 9 and three quarters," Draco remarked next to him.

Colin and Dennis, were already waiting on the train, holding the doors open for Harry. Draco jumped in first, and a while later Harry breathed, and coughed around the corner. The train doors almost slapped into his face, but fortunately the conductor had seem him waddling along, and obviously had had mercy with his sweaty out of breath face.

Dennis looked at him and laughed. "You just single-handedly destroyed one of my favourite assumptions about England" he remarked.

"Me?" Harry asked, pointing to himself with a big question-mark over his head. "I didn't do anything at all."

Confused, he removed the guitar case from his back, and put it in between his knees, then sank into an empty seat.

"Well, up until a few moments ago I thought that every Brit was some kind of David Beckham wannabe," he joked.

Tired and hungry they found themselves in a Salzburg cafe a few hours later. Their table crammed with Apfelstrudel, and other Austrian desserts, and Harry was in heaven. He felt like unwrapping his guitar, and compose a love song to its deliciousness right on the spot. The strudel was freshly baked, and steaming hot, as if it had jumped straight from the oven onto his plate, and was served with a large scoop of vanilla ice cream, that no other vanilla flavoured ice cream he ever had in his life would dare to compete with. The whipped cream on top - Harry didn't even have the words to describe it. It was so fresh that they probably whipped the cow along with it.

He laid his head back and stretched his long legs under the table. A moan, that would put every adult movie star to shame escaped his lips, as he rubbed his steadily growing belly.

"Harry!" Draco squealed, his eyes almost bulging out of his face: "Would you mind!" But Harry knew from the tone of voice that he had a hard time stifling his giggles.

Excusing himself from the table, Harry left the cafe to have cigarette outside. "Helps digesting," he mumbled, automatically thinking that he had to excuse himself.

'I've clearly spent too much time with Hermione lately' he mused, after Draco threw him a bewildered look.

Austria was absolutely awesome. Not really bothering with what other people might think of him, he sat cross-legged on the sidewalk, just a few steps away from the cafe, and enjoyed the rich favour of his beloved Marlboro's. With the curiosity of a child he watched tourists rushing along the highly populated Getreidegasse.

"Gay-try-the-gah-sa," Harry tried to pronounce the name of the street correctly. It was a very weird name for a street. Gay-try. Try-gay... Harry liked it.

Most of the buildings were decorated with non-matching modern looking shop signs and Harry couldn't decide whether this added an odd charm to the place or was destroying the scenery. However, flowing over the heads of the many by-passers were still lush and pompous old fashioned shop signs with neatly calligraphed names. With enough concentration and squinting, he managed to ignore the mismatching modernness, and focused on what this place would have looked like in the nineteenth century.

He envied the people living back then. They truly appreciated the beauty of the town they were living in. Music had required talent instead of stage make up and auto-tune. Fashion had required a seamstress's skill, and not a designer label. A true appreciation of beauty, instead of something that needed to be interpreted by someone with a PhD in Art Design, or something stupid of the sort. Mozart must have been one lucky guy, well.. for a short time at least.

All of a sudden he missed his Lily, his guitar.

He wanted to play.

He wanted to compose, write beautiful music that described the atmosphere of this special place.

Slowly, he picked himself up from the ground and marvelled again at the magic of the place surrounding him, then he walked back to the cafe.

One day, he promised himself, he would come back here with more time on his back. He would come along and bring his guitar, sit at this particular spot, and play some music.

He took another breath, and refined his plan. Perhaps the guitar wasn't enough. Maybe he should bring his Bellatrix, his violin instead. Truth was, he got a bit rusty playing it, but he would pick up quickly. Then he would play some of Mozart's beautiful music, and make sure that everyone walking down Getreidegasse, would not only know who Mozart was, where he was born, and what he looked like, but also how it felt to be enchanted by the wonderful music that he had created.

Harry couldn't help smiling when he came returned to his friends. Ordering himself a glass of beer, he pretended to listened to his friends' conversation, while daydreaming of living here one day.

"Potty, you look and sound like you just did the naughty out there," Draco helpfully remarked.

They continued doing some sightseeing until it was time to find a cheap little Bed and Breakfast.

It was a silent taxi ride to 'Pension' that had been recommended to them. What a funny word, he mused after he heard the German equivalent for Bed & Breakfast.

"Argh!" Harry groaned "I'm never ever going to get up again in my entire life, I promise!" He had fallen onto his bed, legs dangling off the side, his arms lying beside him, and his face crammed into the pillow. In any other circumstances the position would be painfully uncomfortable, but he was too tired to care.

"I take your word for it, because if you try to drag me out of my bed in a couple of hours, I'll be seriously mad at you" Draco replied, his voice filled with sleep.

'Weird' Harry's fading consciousness noted. Ever since Draco came back to him, he had had the same chirpy tone of voice. There had never been any trace of tiredness or fatigue before.

Now that he came to think of it, this was the first time, the blonde had announced he was tired.

Harry yawned. He was too exhausted to worry any further.

The next morning Harry woke to the sun shining brightly in his face. He stretched his stiff muscles, and yawned loud enough for anyone in a ten mile radius to her.

"Good Morning," a too cheerful voice greeted him from the bathroom door. Contrary to last nights promise, Draco was already awake.

"It is not normal to be in such a good mood at fuck past midnight," complained Harry, but managed to get his lazy limbs out of the bed. He picked up his jeans and Hard Rock Cafe Vienna t-shirt, and stumbled into the bathroom.

The shower was brief, and he skipped shaving, or combing his hair. He had a date with the cafe from the day before, where he planned to stuff himself through the entire selection of austrian cuisine: Palatschinken, Germknoedel, Kaiserschmarren... Harry was even able to remember, and pronounce, the names of the dishes correctly.

A bubbly waitress came to take his order. "How do you like Salzburg so far?" She asked.

"Bloody brilliant," Harry nodded enthusiastically. "That must be the best place in the world. You're so lucky to live here."

The waitress smiled: "How much longer are you staying? I could play guide for a day," she winked at him. Harry gulped, and eloped into a coughing fit. He looked at Draco in a plead for help, only to realise that his friend somehow left without a trace. "My boyf..." he started, and turned his attention back to the waitress, and his eyes almost bulged. Somehow, she had morphed into a Draco-look-alike.

The Draco-look-alike shrugged her shoulders, and turned to leave. "I'll have your cappuccino ready in a moment."

She didn't look back.

Harry was confused. He stretched his feet and sank lower into his comfortable seat, then folded his hands behind his neck and whistled along with the strangely familiar music coming from a hidden speaker.


	17. Chapter 17

**AN: Here it is: The final chapter.**

 **Did I ever promise a happy ending? Nope, I didn't...**

 **Please tell me what you think**

 **Thank you for sticking with me to the end. :)**

 **~Mouladinne x**

Timeless Death Trap

Packing suitcases, and boxes, to leave the small studio flat, that was no longer his, with no single penny to his name, Harry heard it again. The song from the cafe in Vienna. Some of his neighbours had in on speaker, and he only heard a muffled version. It somehow irked him that he couldn't place its familiarity.

A lot of things irked Harry recently.

He hadn't seen or heard from Draco since Salzburg. Alone and miserable, he had made his way back to London. He and Hermione were still on non-speaking terms despite the fact that she had apologised plenty of times. Apparently meeting some Miami Ink dude had been a lifetime dream of hers.

Once back home, Mr Flitwick, his fuming landlord, had knocked a hole into Harry's door, because he hadn't paid his rent for the last three months. Apparently, Mr Flitwick had tried to contact him on several occasions, but he didn't remember. Came to think of it, Harry realised that he didn't remember a lot things lately, so he shrugged his shoulders and apologised. Unfortunately, Mr Flitwick was more interested in bank transfers than manners, and Harry found himself packing with no idea where to go.

He gulped down a cup of coffee, lit up a cigarette, and inhaled greedily. "Stupid Draco," he muttered to himself. "Why the fuck did you leave me hanging? Where the fuck did you go?" He clenched and unclenched his fingers. "Unreliable bastard son of a bastard!"

He took the empty mug, and smashed it against the closest wall. "Fuck you!"

Another cup flew against the wall.

"I hate you!"

"I hate you so much!" Harry sank down, big tears rolling down his cheeks.

"Fuck it! Fuck it all. I'm so sick of this pointless shit, this pointless life."

He rolled into a foetal position, and sobbed for god knows how long. Until all energy and tears had finally left him, and only an empty human shell was left behind.

"Its okay, Potty," he heard a meek voice whisper after a while.

Harry opened his eyes and caught a cloud of blonde in his peripheral vision. Draco was standing next to him.

"I haven't seen you in a while," Harry remarked coldly.

"I have been away," Draco said, as if Harry hadn't noticed.

"Yeah," Harry said, and extinguished yet another cigarette.

Draco walked to the window sill and sat down, his legs dangling. He gave Harry a tender smile, "You were happy there."

"Yeah," Harry said. He lit up another cigarette. Then he sighed.

Draco looked at him, concern written all over his face. His eyebrows were drawn together, and he was biting the nail of his right thumb.

"Just lost in thought, I guess" Harry answered her unasked question. He shrugged his shoulders, and pulled another strand of his hair. "I don't want you to leave ever again! You and me, forever together."

Draco said nothing for a while. They were looking at another. The silence grew more uncomfortable by the second. Harry shifted nervously.

Draco got up from the window sill, and started pacing the room up and down, a habit that had driven Harry crazy when the blonde had still been alive. "Okay," he said in a low, unfamiliar voice. His big grey eyes pierced straight through Harry. The serious expression wasn't one that he had seen very often on his blonde friend. It made him look older, harder.

There were hard lines around Draco's mouth now, His small lips, a bit thinner than he remembered, formed a straight line. His chin looked pointy, something he had never noticed before. Cheeks, usually blushed with a soft rose hint, were now pale and hollow, and there were black circles underneath his eyes.

Overall, Draco looked like gaunt, his red shirt was hanging limply down his frame, revealing white, beanpole-like legs with wobbly knees.

"You lost some weight," Harry said.

Draco shrugged "I look the way you choose to remember me."

Harry shook his head: "I want to remember you the way you looked the last time I saw you. At the party, before you..." he gulped, trying to hold back tears.

His body was shaking.

He usually refused to remember that day at all. It made him sick to the stomach. Too many emotions were boiling inside of him, and he didn't know how to handle them. He jumped up, and ran to the bathroom, bent over the toilet and emptied his stomach.

Draco had followed him, and was looking at the mirror above the sink. He studied his face as if it was something he hadn't seen before, then turned and inspected his body, including a vast selection of scars up and down both arms, Harry hadn't noticed before. He turned to the brunette, a questioning look on his face. "But this is exactly what I looked like that night."

Harry brushed his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt, then stood up, and helped himself to some water. "No," he said in the softest voice. "No, that's not true."

Draco sat down next to him, and put his arms around Harry's shoulders, then pressed a soft kiss to his temple.

They didn't talk. They just said in silence.

Harry had the sudden urge to drink. Unfortunately there was no alcohol left in - no longer his - flat, so he put on his shoes and jogged to the corner shop. On his way, he was pondering over Draco's words, while the events of that particular night were playing inside his head like a movie.

 _There was no phone call, no text message, and no facebook post. Harry was waiting for Draco at the Three Broomsticks, for a late breakfast. Having to wait for Draco for half an hour or more was nothing out of the ordinary. Waiting for an entire hour was still somewhat normal within Draco-timekeeping-standards, but the clock kept on ticking along and ticking, and Harry knew that something wasn't right. He had no explanation, but his stomach was clenching, as if anticipating bad news._

 _He did his best to ignore the feeling, and drowned it with another beer, while he waited and waited for the blonde._

 _After two hours, Harry was growing concerned. He pulled out his mobile, and tried Draco's number once again, but wasn't surprised when the phone went straight to voicemail. He tried one, two, three more times, and kept on telling himself that_ Draco _was probably still in bed, soundly asleep and his worries were for naught. There was this awkward voice in his head though, that told him it wasn't true._

Harry _ignored it._

 _Not wanting to go home, he strolled around town aimlessly, until he found himself on Oxford Street, occupying his mind with some retail therapy, that included a forty quite aloe vera cream. He had no logical explanation for this particular purchase other than that the sales assistant at Selfridges looked so much like Draco, that it was against Harry's nature to say no. Also, he didn't want to give the impression that he was too poor to afford proper grooming._

 _He briefly contemplated going over to Draco's new place, but decided against it._

 _He didn't remember his exact reasoning._

 _Instead, he spontaneously decided to visit his friends Blaise and Daphne, and together they watched some DVD's. They drank too much, smoked too much, and at the end of the night,_ Harry _saw rainbows and unicorns flying around his head._

 _He remembered, that he had rolled on the floor laughing until tears were streaming down his face, unable to get a grip on himself. Just lying there, laughing, felt too good to ever stop._

 _Perhaps he subconsciously already knew that he wouldn't have reason to laugh again for a very long time._

 _Once the film was finished, Blaise switched the television to SKY news, but_ Harry _continued to laugh and laugh. Some riots were just as funny as the Euro crisis, and a recent terrorist attack somewhere abroad downright hilarious._

 _He remembered Daphne starring at him, scolding him for behaving like an idiot, while Blaise encouraged his craziness, his phone in his hand, and filming everything._

Harry had to put his head between his hands and was craving fresh air despite the fact that he was outside. His breath got rapid, and he was short of passing out. Bile was raising inside his stomach, and he could feel his face turning green. His entire body was shaking, and cold sweat was running down his forehead and temples. He gasped, coughed, hiccuped at the same time, feeling like he had swallowed the heaviest, largest stone on earth.

Only then did he realise that tears were streaming down his face, and he cried, and gasped, and clenched his white knuckled-fists.

He had tried to hard to keep the most dreadful of all memories safely locked away, but it was on pushing to the front of his mind, unable to be stopped by the strongest barrier in the world.

 _The television suddenly announced the tragic death of a well known TV personality. A picture of_ Draco _, which had been taken the night prior flashed up on the television screen. He was smiling innocently, eyes wide open, and blonde hair slightly tousled. He was wearing his favourite, bright red Louis Vuitton shirt. It used to be his father's, and was the only thing he owned of this man. It almost reached down to mid thigh and completely covered the short shorts he was wearing underneath._

 _"Suicide," the host said and words like: "razor blade, bathroom, found by her cleaner, pool of blood" followed._

Harry _he couldn't help it. Unable to stop his laughing fit, he laughed and laughed, tears rolling down his eyes._

Harry was vomiting. Bale covered the floor, his shirt, and he even managed to get some of it into his hair. Greenish liquid was pooling out of him until he felt completely drained.

He couldn't turn his mind from the truth any longer: He had been rolling on the floor and howling with laughter when he had heard of Draco's death, as if it was the funniest thing ever.

Harry felt as if the floor he just stood suddenly exploded into mind was fighting an ethereal fight of good and evil. Of sanity and insanity.

His heart stood still for a moment, while everything he had ever believed in and everything he ever was, shatterd into the a thousand shards.

Like mosquitoes, those pieces were attacking him now, humiliating him! He could hear their laughter ringing loudly in his ears.

The mosquitoes sounded a lot like Hermione, Ron, and even Blaise.

They bit their way through is skin, and crept inside of him.

Tiny little feet left their tickling imprint on their way through his veins to the clenching area that was his heart.

More and more of those little pests were following. The mosquitoes were everywhere. In- and outside of his body, he could hear their marching in step, reformed to one big giant who was completely overwhelming him.

With each of their little steps, the thumping noise of their feet got louder and louder, until the noise level resembled a full blown machine gun in war.

In an instant reaction he wanted to cover his ears, but that would have been no avail. The rumpus was within him.

The itch on his body turned into a rash. Vibrant red, with nasty pimples. One after the other decorated every inch of visible skin.

It didn't stop there! Harry could feel them on his nerves, and each of his inner organs. It was burning him from the inside.

He wanted to scream. The air in his lungs was suffocation him. Harry had never been a screamer. His vocal cords never worked like that.

The only thing his mouth produced was a shock of bitter aftertaste behind his gums.

"Ey, you! You alright?"

Somebody shook his shoulder. Groggily, Harry opened his eyes, and found himself confronted with the corner shop owner. With his eyes adjusting, Harry noted that he was lying just in front of the shop, covered in his own vomit.

"Do you want me to call an ambulance for you?" Asked the owner, his mobile in hand. Still feeling dizzy, Harry shook his head. "I'm okay now, thanks," he lied.

"Here, have this" The man pressed a can of coke into his hands. "It will make you fell better."

Harry took one careful sip, than gulped the entire can down like a man dying.

"Anything else I can do for you, lad?" The owner inquired, scratching his scruffy white beard.

Harry was still lying on the ground, clutching his head. "I'm not drunk," He announced. "I was just about to get started though. Was just on my way to get some JD from your shop in fact."

The owner erupted into a crackling laughter, that ended with a coughing fit: "Lad, I doubt you need any poison tonight. Go home, give it a rest."

Harry's heart started to beat just a little bit faster. There was no way he would survive tonight without being completely wasted. He didn't want to feel anymore. He wanted to forget. Forget his own name, his life ... his pain.

"I really need a drink," Harry begged. "Its just... I didn't have a good day, okay." The owner shook his head, but tattled back to the shop to retrieve a bottle for Harry. He tsk'd when he handed it over to the with vomit caked young man. "I really shouldn't be doing that," he said. "If you find yourself in a hospital tomorrow morning, I wasn't the one who sold you that, okay lad?"

Harry nodded, and handed the man a small pouch filled with change.

"Well, lad - if you're fit to drink, you're fit enough to remove your filthy arse from my door step," The owner made a shushing motion and a disgusted look crossed his face.

Harry managed to get up, but staggered for a bit before he was able to steady himself.

"Go," The owner urged.

Harry obliged as quickly as he could, which wasn't very quick at all, and stumbled back home, the bottle clutched into both his hands.

Just as he was around the corner, another wave of nausea hit him and he found himself dry-heaving.

That memory again.

As soon as he had left the corner shop's merciful distraction, it once again glued itself to the forefront of his helpless mind. Harry wanted to shout, scream, hit the wall... He would do anything to get rid of this heavy... it wasn't pain.

It was something worse than that.

Not caring, he slumped down on the spot, and opened the bottle of instant nightmare relieve potion, in his hand. As eagerly as an addict, he forced the liquid down his throat until the last drop.

His fuzzy brain registered a car passing by somewhere close. Out of the rolled down windows he heard the same songe that had been driving him nuts since Austria. The car passed, and left behind the noisy cloud of regular London traffic.

Harry scratched his aching head, and wondered why he was so intrigued by that piece of music.

Another stroke of headache hit him unexpectedly, and he drifted back into unconsciousness. Good music or not, he wanted nothing more than to be surrounded by peace providing blackness.

Harry awoke again and reached for his pack of cigarettes, but found it empty. He picked himself off the ground, grumbling, and walking straight ahead with no sense for time or direction.

When he had a look around his current location, he noted with disbelief that he was in front of the Sainsbury's he used to work at until not too long ago. He staggered inside, carving cigarettes and if possible another bottle of JD. He hoped to find Ron, or some other colleague, who might be convinced to hand out both free of charge.

There was this song again.

It slithered from the speakers right into his ears. Harry tried to ignore it. The music seemed to follow him like a shadow.

It seemed Sainsbury's had a complete staff turnover since he left as he had yet to spot a familiar face. He helped himself to some chicken wings from the hot plate, not feeling any guilt at all. Nobody realised if they went missing anyway. The guy running the section had similar work ethics to Harry, and never gave a shit.

That song was still playing in the background. Why anyone would produce a rubbish piece of music like that, he'd clearly never understand. A group of teenage girls was passing him on their way to the cosmetic aisle, all bobbing their heads, and singing along. Harry rolled his eyes and felt like approaching them to recommend some acne products and weight loosing solutions.

Then, all of a sudden, the song pierced directly into his nerves.

He was just about to put a hot wing into his mouth, but stopped dead in his tracks. Dropping the bite, he went as still as a statue.

Everything froze inside of him. His blood went cold and hard, clogging his veins, and his heart started skipping beats. His head went light and numb. He felt like a train was running through his brain. Loud, wailing and stomping until the constant choo choo's were driving him into insanity.

Then he wasn't capable of feeling anything any longer. The world stopped spinning.

Why?

How could that have happened? Why didn't anyone warn him?

His body, statue like just a moment ago, was now shaking like little leaves in a November storm. How his legs managed to support him, he didn't know.

Someone or something must dragged him out of reality and thrown him into a parallel universe... this... This was too wrong to be real! It hurt every single nerve in his brain. A bizarre dancefloor-pop version of 'Kickin Cotton Balls"

Harry screamed. He screamed until he could scream lo longer. Until his vision became blurry, and he couldn't tell nightmare from reality.

He looked around, wondering why no security guards were running in his direction.

No one paid attention to him. People passed by, without a glance in his direction. The shelfstockers continued stocking their shelves as if they didn't even see him. No manager came rushing along to drag him out of the store like a crazy person.

"You weren't there when I needed you the most, you imprint of a fool!" Draco shouted at him, his face red.

Harry started to shake. He was pulling his hair harder and harder. Without realising what he was doing, he continued. Strand after strand he pulled out, while he tried to find the right words to explain himself to Draco.

The blonde was piercing him with accusations. Every single misdeed, everything he ever did wrong, all was thrown back at him.

"You never listened to me! You spend your life, living in your own misery, doing nothing but pity yourself." He laughed without any humour. "But you never saw or cared for the people around you. You never acknowledged when I needed someone, because all you ever focused on was your very own miserable life." Draco took a breath.

"No wonder everyone turned away from you. No wonder you don't manage grow up, and now wonder you keep on digging your own hole with every passing day!"

Harry started to pull his hair even harder. "Please," he begged, "I cared about you. All the time." He hid his face in his hands, and started to sob. "I'm sorry, that I failed you, and I'm sorry that you had to think that way. I'm so sorry for being blind and ignorant, and I'm sorry that I never told you how much I love you. I'm sorry for being weak" Harry let his tears run freely now, while the words just kept on blurring out without any control.

Draco stopped, and eyed him with a wary expression. "You loved me?" He asked. "I do," confirmed Harry.

"Why did you never tell me?"

Harry shrugged his shoulders, then took a deep breath, swallowed some of his saliva, and stared onto the ground. "Because when you love someone as much as I love you, your only urge is to thrive to be the person they need you to be." He gulped. "And you needed a friend, and not a partner. And I am so so truly sorry that I was a shitty one." Fresh tears rolled down his cheeks. "I'm sorry," he repeated again, his voice thick with tears." He cried. He screamed. He pulled more hair. His skin was already showing.

Draco said nothing, but disappeared. Fading into non-existence. He wasn't needed any more.

The song was finished now, replaced by the loud and cheerful voice of the radio host. "And this is the current number one: 'Kicking Cotton Balls' by Heronymous. For those of you who don't know, that's the pseudonym for Harry Potter. The guy you probably remember for being Draco Malfoy's constant sidekick. With only 24 years of age, he recently died of alcohol intoxication. According to his friends, he never got over Draco. They said, that the day Draco died, was the day Harry had stopped living, too.

The song you just heard was written for Draco. A farewell to life."

THE END

Epilogue

Harry opened his eyes. His head felt clear. Clearer that it had ever felt before. He carefully looked around his surroundings, and found to his surprise that he seemed to be a very white and very clean version of King's Cross Station.

Waking up in strange places was hardly ever a good thing, but he felt surprisingly safe wherever he was.

Strange colours, he had never seen before, circled around his head. Just a few steps away from his waking place was an old fashioned sign. Platform 9 3/4 quarters, it read. Underneath, still clad in ugg boots, and red shirt stood Draco, a happy grin on his face.


End file.
